


Feeding the Flame

by greysynonyms



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: AU within an AU, Achievement Hunter Heists, Aftermath of Torture, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Angst, Asphyxiation, Beating, Biting, Branding, Burning, Conflicting Feelings, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fake AH Crew, Female Jack, GTA AU, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, Heartbreak, Heists, Hurt/Comfort, If you like Geoff don't read this one, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kidnapping, Love Triangles, Mildly Dubious Consent, Obsession, POV Second Person, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Possessive Behavior, Psychological Trauma, Rough Sex, Ryan-centric, Scars, Sexual Tension, Split Path, Torture, Trauma, Unsafe Sex, Waterboarding, flaying, i'm still trash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-03-02 20:32:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 47,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18818482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greysynonyms/pseuds/greysynonyms
Summary: Begins after Chapter 15 of "Playing with Fire". This story will take you down the path with Ryan instead of Geoff.





	1. Perfect

     You stand in front of an unmarked door with your fist raised to knock, trying to build up the nerves to do exactly that. You had spent the better part of a week in Geoff’s room, slowly healing both physically and mentally with his help. You spent the nights his bed, wrapped in his arms while you listened to stories of his favorite heist successes and blunders, and you spent the mornings watching him make you breakfast (insisting that you shouldn’t help--that you need to ‘ _conserve your energy to heal_ ’). He acted the part of a perfect gentleman, re-bandaging your wounds every night, helping you through your panic attacks (which you are proud to say are steadily getting less frequent and less debilitating), constantly making sure you felt comfortable, that you weren’t in pain, that you had enough space.

     And it was perfect, you have to keep telling yourself.

     It _is_ perfect.

     He combed out your hair, allowed you to use his toothpaste and his deodorant and clothes when you didn’t feel like wearing what Jack had brought you. He was your shoulder to cry on during the nights when you would startle awake, screaming for the phantoms in your nightmares to _stop, stop, please, stop!_ Despite his obligation as the boss of an infamous Los Santos crew, he never left your side. He gave you everything you wanted without batting an eyelash-- _almost_.

     You loved being with him that night, feeling his body so close to yours, but you woke up the next morning feeling almost too well rested. You woke up with no aches or pains or bruises on your thighs. And that should be okay, but you woke up feeling so... underwhelmed.

     So you had tried--quite a few times--to give Geoff _subtle_ hints that you wanted something a little more from him. Something a little less gentle, a little less clean, something maybe just a little indecent. You tried giving him sultry smiles from across the room, tried placing your hand against his thigh during movie nights, you even cuddled up against him one night and pressed your body against his in the most obvious way you could think to.

     Nothing.

     You aren’t sure if he’s simply oblivious or if he’s purposely ignoring your attempts; after his reaction to your stitches tearing open that first night, you’re pretty sure it’s the latter. You understand his concern, especially after seeing the sheer amount of marks Tinkerbell's goons had left on your body in the mirror for the first time, but you also wish he would believe you when you tell him that you’re not going to fall apart if he touches you. You crave something more than the occasional kiss to the forehead, or the gentle brush of tattooed knuckles across your arms--something to replace the memories of grimy hands on you, _hurting_ you. Something to make you forget. His lack of response to your attempts left you feeling that something was wrong, that something was _missing_. It left a sour taste on the tip of your tongue.

     Then one night while you were watching movies, lying comfortably against his chest, he told you that you needed to have a talk with Ryan. You were surprised to hear the suggestion from him, and so suddenly at that; you figured that Geoff would be perfectly content keeping you cooped up in his room where he could keep and eye on you while simultaneously ensuring that Ryan _couldn’t_. You quickly realized that boss-mode was on when he told you that he couldn’t let the dynamic between the two of you affect Ryan’s behavior on the job.

     And, yeah, that makes sense. You’ve witnessed an angry Ryan before and you sure as hell wouldn’t want to deal with him in the middle of a job, especially if that anger is directed at you.

     Still, the suggestion made the hairs at the back of your neck stand on-end.

     The sour taste blossomed into something more potent, something you can still taste, even now as you stand in front of the door to Ryan’s room. You smell like Geoff’s cologne, you’re wearing his overly-large t-shirt--you look like you just had a romp with the man before making your way over to Ryan’s room. You wish that’s what had happened, and a tiny part of you hopes that that’s exactly what Ryan thinks, too.

     You just barely tap your knuckles against the wood and the door swings wide like he’s been expecting you. You’re not surprised to see that he’s wearing his mask.

     “Can I help you?” he asks in a way that’s a little too polite.

     You see his eyes skim over you and land on your neck where the faded remains of a hickey created by Geoff’s teeth and tongue colors your skin (unfortunately the only reminder he painted on your skin that night); you picture the sneer he probably has on his face and flush. “I just want to talk,” you answer after a moment. You don’t, not really, not now--you wanted to at one point but that was before he was an absolute ass to you in front of everyone. You shift your weight from one leg to the other and realize that your knee, your slowest healing and most pain-in-the-ass injury, is throbbing. You want desperately to sit down but you try not to show it.

     “I assume that you mean Geoff would like us to talk, but fine, yeah,” he nods eventually--you still hate the way he can see through you so easily. “There are a few things I want to talk to you about too.”

     There’s something about his tone that makes nervousness settle like a rock in your stomach. He steps aside to let you in (you’re glad--you were starting to think he was going to make you stand in the hallway the whole time) and you do your best not to limp as you move past him. You must do a terrible job because he hums knowingly low in his throat. You make a beeline toward his couch but just as you’re about to sit down he stops you.

     “Ah,” he says, eyes glinting behind the mask as you freeze in your spot. “Etiquette dictates that I allow you in, but I never said that you should make yourself comfortable.” He circles you slowly, his presence imposing and menacing, and sits down on the couch himself. He fixes you with a self-satisfied smile obvious in his eyes as he pats his thighs. “Unless, of course, you’d like to make yourself comfortable here instead?”

     You grind your teeth together and stand up straighter. Your knee aches, pain pulsing up into your thigh, and you hiss a shallow breath through your teeth. You eye the length of his legs despite your better judgement, tracing the lines of thick muscle that show through his jeans.

     He reaches out for you, offering you his open palm.

     You _will not_ humiliate yourself like that.

     “You’re an ass,” you say--it’s a weak comeback, especially since you’re positive he saw you ~~ogling him~~ debating his offer. “You better make this brief.”

     Ryan’s eyes go completely flat, lacking any semblance of emotion at all. “I’m sorry, do you have better things to do?” he asks with a humorless laugh. “Is Geoff really all that good at keeping you preoccupied?”

     You bristle at the insult, “As a matter of fact, yes, he is.”

     His eyes glint, “I’m sure.” He stands suddenly, stalks closer to you but you refuse to move from your spot, leaving your feet firmly planted even as he leans down close enough that you’d be able to feel his breath on your neck if it weren’t for that stupid mask. He lifts a hand, trails the backs of his fingers from your wrist to your shoulder. The motion is an exact mirror of the way that Geoff touches you, but it has an entirely different affect on you.

     For a moment you think he’s going to kiss you--for a moment your gut twists and you actually _anticipate_ it. You wait for his hand to lift his mask the way he used to, wait for the feel of his stubble against your jaw, wait for the feel of his teeth in your neck--

     “Y’know, I think I’d like to hear a thank you before we get into the good stuff,” he mutters, and you can tell by the smug tone of his voice that he knows _exactly_ what you were just thinking about.

     You’re almost glad for your injuries because they’re the only thing that stops you from slapping him across the face. Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with him? What the fuck is wrong with _you?_  You came here at the behest of Geoff in order to squash beef, not to… do whatever it is you’re doing, not to think whatever it is you’re thinking. You need to get a grip. You take a shuddering breath, ignore the burning in your cheeks--if you respond to him he’ll only make things worse for you. “I would have thanked you a while ago had you not had better things to do,” you throw his own words back into his face mockingly.

     He laughs a real, bitter laugh that causes chills to race along your arms. “Do you honestly expect an apology when I’m trying to save your ass again? ” He takes a step forward that has you instinctively taking a step back, like an animal caged, and he seems pleased with your response because his eyes crinkle smugly and he stops moving again. “I don’t have to hunt Tinkerbell down, I’m choosing to. Don’t forget that.”

     You should just thank him, get it over with and hopefully move on--it’s not as though he doesn’t deserve it after what he went through to rescue you. In fact, he’s right, he doesn’t have to do anything more for you than what he already has, but you don’t thank him because he always has something to say that presses all the wrong buttons in your body. “Just like you didn’t have to do anything at the party when he drove away with me, right?” It’s irrational and unreasonable, but there’s still a stupid part of your brain that holds onto the resentment that he was there and he didn’t do anything.  

     You have no idea how he moves so fast but he suddenly has his long fingers snug around your throat and he all but lifts you off the ground with the pressure he exerts over your windpipe. Panic spreads through your body like wildfire but you train your eyes on his mask and it anchors you to reality. You expect to see that crazed look in his eyes but he’s still calm, void of emotion. “You are not my responsibility,” he speaks evenly, punctuating every word with an excruciating squeeze of his hand, “you have made that perfectly clear. The fact that you would ever even think to go after him alone just because you were upset speaks volumes about how inexperienced, childish, and stupid you are.”

     You can feel tears begin to prickle in the corners of your eyes--you’re not sure if they’re from fear, anger, sadness, or some horrible combination of all three. Of course he’s right, he’s right about everything. But you’re one prideful son-of-a-bitch. “I get it, you were more interested in protecting yourself. Geoff told me you were only there to get intel, so why risk yourself for a stupid girl? Why bother helping me at all if that’s all I am to you, Ryan?” You raise your hand and squeeze your broken fingers around his wrist despite the pain it causes--actually, you kind of enjoy it, because you deserve it for the absolute bullshit that’s spewing out of your mouth. “Why not leave me to die?” You feel the fingers loosen around your throat and then he drops you in a heap on the couch. You gasp in a breath and then cough into your arm.

     He slams his hands against the back of the couch on either side of your head, boxing you in, and then leans so close to you that your nose brushes against the mask he wears. You pushed him too far, you know as soon as you see the look in his eyes--wild, depraved, a man with loose morals and no inhibitions just like the rumors say. “What makes you think I didn’t just want you for myself?” he asks in that same sing-song sort of way that you heard before he flayed goon one. He leans closer, the leather of his couch creaking in protest as his fingers grip it tighter. He leans in until his mask is nuzzling your neck right over the scar from the knife he made you cut yourself with all those nights ago. “I could do things to you Tinkerbell could never dream of.”

     You feel a very real, very present spike of fear now that you can no longer see the mask clearly. “Ryan,” you say shakily, placing your hand gently on his shoulder to try to push him away. He’s like an unmoving wall of solid muscle in front of you so you push more insistently, feeling the panic pooling in your veins as your mind begins to conjure up images of the dark room. “Please,” you say quietly.

     He inhales deeply, lifting a hand from the couch to tickle his fingertips across your cheek and chuckling when you flinch away. “I love it when they beg,” he mutters lowly. He grabs your jaw and leans back to look into your eyes. “Did you beg them to stop while they were torturing you?” His eyes flick momentarily to the tears that begin to slide down your cheeks. He squeezes your face tighter. “Did you?” he demands.

     “This isn’t funny,” you say--you want it to sound angry but your voice just reminds you of the way you sounded while you were kidnapped. “This isn’t a joke to me.” When he still doesn’t budge you close your eyes, feel the tears slip across the ridge of your jaw and down your neck. “Please Ryan, this isn’t fucking funny.”

     He hums, “Just like that, that desperation, that’s what I love the most.” You feel his finger follow the length of your jugular vein. “Maybe he wasn’t kidding about your scream.”

     Your throat goes dry. He wouldn’t, would he?

     “Tell me,” his finger lingers over the hickey on your neck, “did you beg like that for Geoff?”

     “I said it isn’t funny!” you yell. Adrenaline fuels you, memories of Tinkerbell and the goons and the dark room flood your mind and all you and think is  _survive_ , so you wind up and punch him in the jaw as hard as you can. You don’t register the pain of your broken fingers cracking around the sight of him stumbling away from you, instead you take the opportunity to jump at him, tackling him to the ground and striking him again, and again, and again. You hear something crunch under the force of your blows but you don't stop. “Do you really want to know what they did to me in that room?!” you scream. “Did seeing the battle scars for yourself not do it justice?!” You’re ripping Geoff’s shirt over your head before you have time to draw your next breath. “They beat me! Cut me! _Mutilated_ me! They burned me with wires,” your voice quivers as you trace along the fresh, pink scar tissue on your collar-bones. “They flooded my lungs with water until I _died_ … and even then, even when it was _finally_ over, they brought me back for more.” Your voice cracks on your final words, your hands shaking as you grab a fistful of his shirt and lift the upper half of his body off the floor, bringing his face to yours. “So yes, I begged,” you spit, ashamed, “I begged until my fucking voice gave out. Is that what you want to hear?”

     Ryan manages to pulls his mask off as you slip into hysterics. He sputters a laugh through a cough, blood bubbling up between his lips as he reaches up to place his hand against your cheek. “Tell me, Princess, why did you beg?” he asks calmly, eyes alight.

     “Because they were hurting me,” you say on a whisper.

     His fingers curl behind your ear, tangling into your hair and tightening their hold on you. He draws you in like a moth to a flame with his haunting gaze, “ _Don’t_ lie to me. Tell me why you begged.”

     “Because I--I didn’t want to die,” you answer, fat tears falling from your cheeks to his chest.

     “That’s right, sweetheart,” he soothes, seemingly appeased by your answer, “you were scared, helpless, weren’t you?”

     You nod along with him, wiping at your face with your arm.

     “You don’t need to be scared anymore.”

     You stare down at him, bewildered by how confident he sounds, by how bright and sure his eyes are, by how fucking _incredible_ he looks with blood smeared across the bottom half of his face. You sniffle. “Why?”

     You jump when he leans in and you feel his tongue catch the tear on your neck. “Do you want to know why I saved you? Why I’m angry? Why I’m going to hunt that son-of-a-bitch down and tear him limb from limb?” He bites your neck right over the marks Geoff left, hard enough that you feel blood gush around his teeth.

     A pathetic whimper catches in your throat.

     “It’s because you’re mine,” he says, almost tenderly, and then places a kiss just above the bite. “I’m the only one who gets to touch you like this, or hear you beg, or hurt you. Me.” His free hand finds your hip and squeezes possessively. “I’ll never let him touch you again,” he breathes against your throat, scraping his teeth along your windpipe.

     The words make your breath hitch--you want to believe he’s still talking about Tinkerbell, you _have_ to believe he’s still talking about Tinkerbell because the alternative… the alternative causes goosebumps to break out across your arms and legs. You feel grateful to Ryan for searching for you, for saving you, but the gratefulness is quickly being swallowed up by something else entirely. You can still remember the feel of his chest heaving against yours, the feel of his weight between your thighs, the sting of his nails across your skin. The sweetest torture you’ve ever known.

     But why are you remembering that right now?

     You’re here because of Geoff.

     You’re here because **Geoff** is important to you.

     You’re here because--because--

     You have no idea what to think anymore, except that you never should have come to his room. You know you look like a wreck, your eyes red and puffy, your throat raw from sobbing; you know it, but it doesn’t stop him from looking up at you with a gentle ( _sweet?_ ) gaze. You know it’s crazy, that he’s crazy, that he’s only behaving the way he is now because he knows it will put him back on your good side. After all, that’s what he does, that’s always what he does right up until he doesn’t feel like it anymore. You know that he’s playing you like fiddle, _like he always does_ (you keep repeating it, hoping it will snap some sense into your idiot brain), but it doesn’t stop you from leaning into the feel of his hand against your face.

     He hums a pleased little sound. “Do you have any idea what I want to do to you?” He punctuates his question with a slow swivel of his hips, his fingers tightening on you. “What I _would_ do to you if they hadn’t hurt you like this?”

     Your head feels hazy, a state of mind that has become rather common for you when Ryan is around. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth and ask, “What would you do?”

     A purring growl rumbles from his chest, “I’d fuck you on this carpet until your arms bled.”

     You inhale sharply, blink rapidly. You can imagine it so vividly and all of a sudden you’re panicking, scrambling backwards, off and away from him as fast as you can. You _want_ him to, desperately. You can already feel your blood running hot, your mouth going dry, your underwear getting damp at the thought of it. You want him to make you forget the horror of it all, to replace the memory of pain that waits behind your eyelids every time you blink with mind-numbing pleasure. Geoff makes you feel safe, but Ryan--he can make you forget. He _understands_ your primordial needs, understands better than anyone the danger that you face every day and the thrill that accompanies it. 

     You have to stop this now, before the situation somehow gets worse. Your heart aches in your chest when you think about how Geoff would feel if he found out; it’s like your first date with him all over again, taking comfort in his kindness and then fucking his crewmate, his **friend**. It's disgusting, selfish, and you--you _don't care_. It's the first clear thought you've had since he cornered you against the couch and it scares the shit out of you. “Why?” you whisper, fresh tears of self-pity flooding your eyes. “Why do I keep coming back to you?”

     Ryan sits up and his teeth flash with his sinister grin, “You know exactly why.”

     You do, but you won't admit it. “Geoff--”

     “Has no idea who you really are.”

     He’s right about that. Geoff has no idea just how two-faced you are, has no idea that you can act the part of domestic girlfriend with him so easily while continuing to harbor some sort of fucked up attraction to a monster like the Vagabond. You’ve always known that Geoff is too good for you but you’re starting to wonder just how much. You _should_ feel like a scumbag, toying with the emotions of someone who really, truly cares about you, but you can’t seem to control it. You can’t get a rein on the twisted piece of yourself that’s helplessly, hopelessly enamored by everything Ryan is.

     You're just so tired. You’re tired of hiding, of pretending.

     You just want to feel safe again.

     You want to forget.

     You want things to go back to the way they were before.

     "I should leave," you rasp before anything else has the chance to leave your mouth. "I just, I need to go… to go rest."

     The hint of emotion he’d shown briefly vanishes--it frightens you that you’re starting to get used to the way his eyes change so quickly. Now there’s a look in his eyes that you recognize, but it’s forced. He stands as you do and watches you carefully as you pull Geoff's shirt back on. "I was under the impression you came here to do more," he says vaguely. "I still haven't gotten a proper 'thank you', you know."

     You open your mouth to speak, to concede, to thank him like you should because he saved you and you owe him your life, but you don't get the chance to vocalize your thoughts before he's speaking again.

     "I never said I wanted a verbal thanks," he stops you, eyes following the curves of your legs and hips. You watch, one part mild fascination two parts abject horror, as he cups himself through his jeans. "In fact, I can think of a much better use for that mouth of yours."

     You reel back and resist the urge to slap him. "You’re a pig.” Just like that the fog in your head clears and you suddenly can't remember what it is you ever saw in him (what it is you somehow continue to see in him). How can one man possibly flip through so many moods so quickly?

     His drops his voice an octave purposefully, “Just crazy about you.”

     “You’re fucking crazy alright,” you agree. You turn to the door.

     “(y/n),” he calls after you (you pretend not to hear the smug smile in his voice). “If you ever feel like reconsidering, you know where to find me.”

     You clench your fist and continue walking--because you’re going to be the adult here, you’re going to walk away and stop letting the crazy asshole get to you--but the sound of his voice halts you again.

     “And (y/n)?” He pauses for a long time, until you turn your head just enough to look at him out of the corner of your eye. “Tell Geoff to keep his hands to himself,” he says, dangerously low.

     You have the sudden urge to shout at him, to tell him that he doesn't have anything to worry about because Geoff seems totally uninterested anyway. The thought comes out of nowhere so quickly that it startles you. The only thing that stops you from blurting it out is the knowledge that it's exactly what Ryan would love to hear.

     "And what if I don't?" you challenge instead, with a burst of insanely misplaced confidence. "What if I do the exact opposite? Maybe I'll ask him to fuck me again! I'm sure he wouldn't mind another round; hell, maybe we'll go for two!"

     He moves again with that same inhuman speed, his footsteps somehow completely silent in the quiet of the room. He has you pinned against the door before you can even start to turn around, his large body seemingly encompassing you as he presses his chest hard against your back to keep you in place. "Does he fuck you, Princess?" His hands smooth down your waist and across your hips. "Does he _really_ fuck you?" You gasp when one of those hands finds your inner thigh and lifts, baring you open for him. There's no kindness in the rough way he holds you, in the dance of his fingertips along your hip bone as they tease their way towards your center. "You hate it, don't you?" he asks, catching your earlobe between his teeth. "Hate that he's so gentle with you."

     You struggle to break free from him but his grip is like iron.

     His fingers slip into your panties and find their prize, pinching your clit in a way that makes you involuntarily arch against him."You can't stand how soft he thinks you are, how frail and _weak_ he makes you feel."

     "You're **wrong** ," you say through gritted teeth. Everything about Geoff is perfect, including how gentle he is. You don't need scratches or teeth against your skin, and you don't need large, dark bruises in the shape of hands on your legs. You don't _need_ the danger that Ryan offers--but fuck if you don't _want_ it.

     "You'd let me fuck you up against the wall right now, wouldn't you?" You gasp at the feeling of his hardened cock grinding against your ass; you rock your hips forward, away from him, but it only serves to push you closer to his fingers. "You'd fucking _love_ it, just like you always do. You and I, (y/n), we're cut from the same cloth."

     "No we're not," you argue, even as your head falls against his shoulder, the threat of a whine working its way into your throat.

     "You just don't see it yet," he chuckles, rolling his hips again and groaning deeply. "But you will." With that he steps away from you, the loss of his fingers leaving you panting and wanting against the door. "You know where to find me when once you do."

     You can't seem to catch your breath enough to say anything in response. You wish you could will yourself to snap at him, tell him to leave you alone, that you never want to see him again, but you can't. You want to for Geoff--because he believes in you, in your relationship--but you can't keep pretending.

     You care about Geoff, more than anything, but you feel _something_ for Ryan too.

     You slam the door behind you when you leave, then lean your back up against the wall, take a deep breath, and struggle to hold back a new flood of tears.

     What the hell are you going to do now?

 

     You lie to Geoff when he asks if you settled things with Ryan. You never wanted to lie to him again but you know that telling him the truth will only create a bigger rift between the two of them and you can’t be the cause of the Fakes falling apart, not after what they did for you. Ryan must act the same way because, over the course of the next few days, Geoff never brings it up again. You suppose it’s for the better; Geoff finally seems more relaxed and, though you avoid Ryan like the plague, you occasionally catch them chatting and laughing together and it makes you feel better. He might be the biggest asshole and lunatic you've ever met, but you can tell that he has a friendship with Geoff that runs deep and you know it's more important to preserve that for Geoff's sake rather than cause anymore drama.

     You also know that it doesn't change the fact that you'll eventually have to tell Geoff about your newfound… feelings. The word feels bitter on your tongue. You've practiced how you're going to tell him, you honestly have, but it's so difficult to explain. How are you supposed to articulate that your body craves someone so intensely without sounding like a fool? You can't figure it out so you put it on the back-burner, another problem for another day. It would be such a shame to ruin how pleasant things have been recently, after all.

     You spend the majority of your time in Geoff’s room, searching for new apartments in the area, but you occasionally spend time getting your ass kicked in every video game imaginable by the lads (minus Gavin most of the time, he’s just as bad as you are). Jack goes to your apartment to get your stuff, not letting you join her despite your numerous protests (too dangerous, she says), and she piles it all into one of the many vacant rooms in the building for storage. You live in that same sort of surreal, domestic bliss with Geoff just like before--and you definitely, definitely never think about anyone other than him. Out of sight, out of mind, right?

     You wake up one night to an empty space beside you in bed; it’s still dark outside and you hear no sounds coming from the bathroom. You frown and sit up. “Geoff?” you call tentatively. When you hear nothing in return your frown deepens and you stand and pull on a long t-shirt. You can’t find him anywhere in the apartment, not in the bedroom, living-room, or kitchen, and a sense of panic begins to rise in your stomach. You take to the hallway, intent on making it to Jack’s room, but you stop when you hear the sound of muffled voices behind one of the doors you’ve never opened.

     You count each individual tone as you hear them--the low, sarcastic sound of Ray, Gavin’s lilting British accent, the crack in Geoff’s voice-- you count each member of the Fake AH Crew as they speak behind the closed door. It’s hard to make out most of what they’re saying but you hear one word that you wouldn’t miss in a million years. Tinkerbell.

     You throw the door open and find six pairs of surprised eyes staring in your direction--Ryan isn’t even wearing his mask (you see the crew look between you and his exposed face several times before it seems to finally settle with them that you’re not surprised and he’s not worried). “Did you find him?” you pierce Geoff with a gaze that you hope says everything you need it to, something along the lines of 'you better not lie to me, motherfucker'. You do your best to ignore Ryan's face but he's fucking distracting and your eyes keep flicking in his direction despite yourself--strong jaw, long blonde hair, the crinkle at the corner of his eyes when they skim the length of your exposed legs, fuck. You swallow thickly; you haven't seen his face since _that_ day, and you certainly haven't been in the same room with he and Geoff in even longer.

     “I told you she’d find out,” Michael mutters under his breath.

     You don't register the sound of his voice around the feeling of arousal pooling low in your gut. Ryan is looking at you like he's about to dive across the room and rip your clothes to shreds, all hooded eyes and suave smiles.

     “(y/n),” Geoff starts, snapping you from the thoughts you totally weren't having because nope, nope, nope.

     You don’t want to hear whatever excuse you know he's about to give you. “You’re not doing this without me,” you say between clenched teeth. “I know you’re trying to protect me but I’ve got a reputation to uphold.” You look down at your feet and say less forcefully, “I know I may have fucked up the first time, but I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

     “It’s too dangerous. You’re not even healed yet,” Jack says sympathetically.

     “She’s right,” Geoff agrees. “It’s too soon for you to do anything, let alone try to go after him. What if you have another--?”

     “I won’t,” you snap before he can finish his sentence. You feel a rush of anger at the thought that he would out something so private in the presence of everyone for his own benefit. You know he’s worried about your panic attacks, especially after witnessing first-hand how bad they can be, but it doesn't give him the right to call you out. You place your hand on your hip and fix him with an irritated look. "You should know better than anyone that I'm stronger than that."

     The silence that follows is palpable. Geoff looks honestly surprised by your tone and the rest of the crew seems to gather that something set you off.

     “I think she’ll make a good addition to the plan,” Ryan says, to everyone's surprise. “What?” he shrugs a shoulder when all eyes turn to him. “If she can survive what she did there I don’t think helping with a little job like this will be too much trouble for the princess.”

     You’re shocked by how genuine he sounds and you mouth a quick ‘thank you’ to him, to which he gives you a small nod in reply. If there’s one thing about Ryan that’s a saving grace it’s that he understands the life you live better than anyone--he knows you’re good at what you do, and he’s apparently unafraid to say it. And how the fuck is anyone supposed to compete with that? With that genuine belief in your abilities?

     Your chest gets tight in a way that makes you uncomfortable. Not only has Ryan sworn to protect you, but now he's willing to stand up for you in front of his own crew, against the wishes of his own boss (but honestly, how often does he really take orders from Geoff seriously?).

     Two points Ryan, one point Geoff.

     Just as you're about to start mentally reprimanding yourself for stacking the two men up against each other like a spoiled brat, Gavin speaks up.

     “I think Ry-bread’s right,” the young man nods. “Plus we’ll protect her if anything goes wrong!”

     “If,” Ray scoffs.

     “Who the fuck are you gonna protect?!” Michael laughs. “We need to save your ass, like, every single time!”

     “Wot?!” Gavin squawks indignantly. “You do not!”

     You turn to look at Geoff while the lads launch off into a conversation of their own. “I promise I won’t do anything stupid,” you say, admittedly with a hint of acid on your tongue. “I just want to help take down the bastard who nearly killed me.”

     “She has a right to help,” Jack says after a moment. “We’ll make sure nothing happens to her.”

     “Fine,” Geoff sighs, drawn out and just a little bit whiny. He's trying to play it off like it doesn't bother him but you can see it in the pinch of his brow. “Fine, you can help.”

     You utter a clipped thanks to him and take a seat on the floor since the crew is occupying the majority of the seating in the living-room. You feel a thrill that you haven’t felt in a while as you look around the room expectantly. “Alright, fill me in,” you say.

     “We haven’t located where exactly Tinkerbell is,” Jack supplies. “He must have run pretty far because it sounds like no one has seen him since that night.”

     “Pussy,” Ray says through a fake cough.

     “Since we can’t find him we need to do something to draw him out,” Jack continues. “We located some buildings he owns, one’s that he’s kept off the radar, so they must be important to him.”

     “The plan is to fuck all his shit up until he’s pissed enough to come after us,” Michael chuckles. “Shouldn’t be hard for us. Plus we get some cash on the side.”

     “So, you’re planning a heist?” you ask.

     “Our specialty, love,” Gavin grins.

     “If I remember correctly, you set the alarms off at the bank I was robbing last time, so I’m gonna call bullshit there.”

     “Oh snap,” Michael giggles. “She’s totally right, you’re such an idiot!”

     “Alright, you cunts ready to get this started?” Geoff asks suddenly, standing and pulling a marker from his back pocket. “It's late and I want to get this over with. We’ll have to start from the top now that (y/n)’s here.” He walks towards the wall where a few large maps of the city had been pinned. Scribbles cover the majority of the surfaces--you assume plans from previous heists. “We’re hitting a jewelry store, located smack-dab in the middle of the fuckin’ city,” he begins, circling the location of the store with a thick, black line. “It’s the spot that should have the most value to him, we think. Who knows? Either way, it’s where we’re going first. This is gonna work pretty much the same way the others have, always some twists and turns, but I’m gonna go over it anyway because I fuckin’ can, and because we have fresh meat.”

     You’re a little surprised by his tone but you’ve also never seen him in action like this before. Honestly, it’s kind of hot. His persona as the boss is commanding, authoritative, the sweetness you're used to seeing from the tattooed man hidden behind an air of cool confidence.

     You wish that attitude would translate to the bedroom.

     You want to slap yourself for the thought.

     “First, the distraction. I was gonna have Jack and Gavin do this, but we’ll switch it up now that we’ve got some help. Gavin and (y/n) will enter the shop, acting like a couple getting engaged—look at the rings, blah-blah, all the bullshit that people in love do, got it?”

     You look at Gavin with a little smirk. “I think we can pull that off.”

     “Yeah, well, you might, but be careful ‘cause Gavin is a fuckin’ idiot,” Geoff points out. “While they’re in the store Team Alpha, Ryan and I,” he informs you helpfully, “will run in, guns blazing, and we’ll get the cash and the jewels. During that time we’ll shoot out the security cameras, which (y/n) will locate in the shop and relay to us before the heist begins. I’ll run out, Gavin will chase after me, y’know, pull the heroic move.”

     “I’ll be a right proper hero,” Gavin chimes.

     “I’ll split right, running around to the back of this building,” the tattooed man dots a line to show his path, “where there will be a parked car waiting. Jack, you’ll be in the car along with a shit-load of C-4. Gavin, you’ll follow me all the way here and meet her once you’re sure no cops are following you. And please, for the love of God, make sure no cops are following you. Once Team Bravo is together the two of you will have to drive the car through the allies, back to the jewelry store. Then you’ll load the building up with explosives.”

     “When will we know to detonate them?” Gavin questions.

     “I’m getting there, hold your fucking horses. It will mostly depend on (y/n) and Ryan; they’ve got the tricky jobs. First,” he addresses you, “you’ll have to play the part of the confused damsel. Y’know, shout for Gavin to come back, act all scared, all that shit. Ryan, you’ll take her hostage for when the cops arrive, got it? Act pissed that your partner ran off or whatever. She has to seem innocent to keep them focused on the distraction rather than chasing my ass down. Make sure to hold a hand over her face like you’re trying to keep her quiet. Once the explosives are in place Jack will give you a signal and you can start taking down the officers as quickly as you can. You know the rules.”

     “No witnesses left behind,” Ryan says with a confident grin.

     You feel a jolt of excitement run down your spine.

     “As soon as he takes the first shot, you pull up your mask and help him take them all down,” Geoff says to you. He eyes you warily but you’re practically vibrating with excitement--you hadn’t thought he’d put you at the center of the plan. “Ray, you’ll be on top of the tall building across the street with your sniper. Take down anyone they miss, get the situation under control if anything goes wrong or if they fuck up. This mission depends on the three of you assholes, so don’t fuck it up, okay? After everything is taken care of Team Delta will head back with Team Bravo, who will be waiting for them behind the building with the car. Once you’re at a safe distance, light the place up and get the fuck out of there. We’ll have two other cars parked here,” he circles a parking lot behind a store a few blocks away from the jewelry store, “just in case any cops see you driving off. Drive there, jump in the cars, and split. Get into traffic if you can, act fuckin’ natural. We’ll have the vehicle windows tinted so don’t worry about the masks because you won’t have time. Team Bravo will be taking this path,” he draws a line across the map through town, towards a small burger joint located within an amusement park on the beach, “to here. This is our meeting point. Here, we can kick back, get some fuckin’ burgers with our cash—we’ll be golden. Team Delta will take this route,” he draws a separate line.

     “Where am I at, Geoff?” Michael asks with a lopsided grin.

     “Michael, you already know what you’ll be doing: blowing up every fucking piece of evidence we leave behind—wiping us from the map. Any cars we abandon, any people we talk to, you get rid of it. All of that shop doesn’t crumble, you make it crumble. After you make sure the building is gone you’ll have to go pick up Ray and the two of you will take this route to the destination. Because you’ll have the explosives we’ll call if there’s something that needs taken care of.” He looks around the room at each individual to make sure no one looks confused. “So, that’s the fuckin’ plan,” Geoff finishes, capping the marker and turning to face the room. “You fucks got any questions? Good. We’ll perform initial recon tomorrow night. The heist will take place three days from now.”

     You raise a cautious hand, “Who exactly is on each team?” You’ve never worked with anyone else and it’s more difficult than you thought to keep up with all the different roles.

     “Team Alpha is Ryan and I, Team Bravo is Gavin and Jack, Team Charlie is Ray and Michael, and Team Delta is you and Ryan at the end of the heist. Clear?”

     “Got it,” you nod. You wonder what possessed Geoff to place you on a team with Ryan but the longer you think about it the more you realize he must have planned the heist so that you’re with the most competent member of the crew when shit starts to hit the fan. It's incredibly sweet of him to put so much thought into your safety--at least, you hope that's what it is. A little voice in the back of your head wonders if it's not some sort of test. You know it isn't, that that's not how Geoff thinks, that he trusts you implicitly though you don't deserve it. But the nagging feeling stays.

     “Think it’ll scare Tinkerbell out of hiding?” Jack asks.

     “Oh, I’d be disappointed if it were that easy,” Ryan replies darkly. “I want to destroy every building he owns first.”

     “Well,” you say with a devious little smirk of your own. “Why don’t we just do that anyway?”

     He hums, blue eyes bright and all for you. "I knew there was a reason I wanted you in on this."

     "Yeah, I'm _sure_ that's the reason," you tease back. You're busy trying to tamper down your grin when you notice the uneasy glance Geoff is casting in your direction. Immediately the corners of your mouth pull into a soft smile and you reach across to take his hand in yours. You give his fingers and gentle, reassuring squeeze and he seems to relax, drawing your hand close to his mouth to press chaste kisses to each of your knuckles.

     The spike of anger you had felt melts away immediately. How could you ever feel anything for this man but adoration? You shuffle closer to him, resting your chin on his knee and gazing up at him. "Thank you for letting me in on the plan," you say, pressing a tender kiss to his thigh.

     His eyes shine with warmth.

     You feel your heart break a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've finally done it!! I hope I'll do the story justice with this spin-off. I contemplated where to start the split-ending for a long time and finally settled on this chapter. It's going to look really familiar to those of you who read the original "Playing with Fire" chapter 16, but there are definitely some key differences that will start to create bigger impact as the story moves forward. I'm going to do my best to give you all the Ryan ending that you deserve!
> 
> I really hope this chapter reads alright--the reader is clearly a lot more unstable, which was a little tricky for me to work with. It's been flowing a lot smoother in the next few chapters (I've got 3 more drafted up already!), but please feel free to leave feedback!
> 
> I've missed you all, and I hope you enjoy! <3


	2. Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of fun in the club reveals some startling truths.

     You’re glad that it’s starting to get chilly out because Geoff never mentions the fact that you’re wearing sweaters and scarves a lot more--he always wants you to be as comfortable as possible and it makes you feel guilty; Ryan’s bite has faded considerably, but it doesn’t change the fact that it happened, and it doesn't change the fact that you're a little sad to see the pretty purple and red flower vanish over time. It doesn’t help that every single time you see Ryan he openly eyes your neck right where he knows the outline of his teeth had marked your skin. You glare at him avidly every time you catch him giving you that predatory look but you know it lacks the luster it needs to make him stop. If you’re being totally honest with yourself you may actually encourage him a few times with a faux-innocent flutter of your eyelashes before you actually got to the glaring part.

     You’re dreading being alone with him for the heist more and more as the minutes tick by, because you have no idea what you're capable of anymore. That’s one of the biggest reasons you can’t open up to Geoff about Ryan (and because you lied to him the first time, and because you feel something you can’t put a finger on for the masked criminal, but hey, who’s counting?), because the heist is in a few days and if he knows there is absolutely no way he’s going to allow you and Ryan to be anywhere near each other. You can't have that.

     If Geoff decides to change your position for the heist last minute it would mean you would no longer be at the center of the action, and it could potentially end with you being kicked from the plan altogether. So, really, you need to keep up the act at least until the heist is over to make sure that Geoff doesn't suspect anything between you and the Vagabond. It's for the good of the crew--you're a strong asset and they need you. More than that, you _need_ to be involved in this. You need to see Tinkerbell suffer at your hands.

     You’re so excited to get out on the streets again that you can hardly contain it. Geoff checks your body with critical eyes every night, then has Kerry check your body twice over to make sure you’re still healing and that you’ll be okay for the job. Kerry very hesitantly okays you for the plan, as long as the Fakes keep a close eye on you--after all, you no longer have to wear your sling, only two of your fingers are still in splints, and you only limp when you’ve been walking around too much and your knee starts to protest. With no stitches, only faded (if any) bruises remaining, and your scabs finally scarred over you’re starting to recognize yourself in the mirror again. You still struggle with the panic attacks, particularly with water, but Geoff helps--especially when he joins you in the shower. That’s always nice.

     You actually make a little headway with him a few evenings. He lets you corner him against the tile and kiss him senseless until the water runs cold. His roaming touches grow a little bolder over time, and he grips your hair eagerly the night you drop to your knees and suck him off in the hallway. He never initiates, but he has at least stopped completely ignoring your libido. It's good enough, for now.

     On the night before the heist you’re busy sitting in the living room of Michael’s apartment, playing video-games and chatting while Geoff cooks everyone some pre-heist hype dinner composed of everyone’s favorites, when Gavin leans forward to ask you a question that catches you completely off-guard.

     “So, love,” he says in a whisper. “When was the first time you saw Ryan’s face?”

     “Oh shit, now this I wanna hear,” Michael says, pausing the game and leaning forward.

     It feels like so long (and at the same time not long at all) since you were rescued that you actually have to take a second to think about how much time has actually passed. It's been a _long_ time since you first caught a glimpse of the lower half of his face, but you're pretty sure that's not they're asking.

     You can still remember that moment like it was yesterday--you were yelling at each other in the streets after a job-gone-wrong, the pavement near you littered with the bodies of dead cops. It wasn’t the first time the Fakes had interfered with something you were trying to pull off and royally fucked it up, but it _was_ the first time you had dealt with so many casualties. You had almost thrown up after lowering your gun for the final time, after sinking a bullet into the temple of an officer who had only just started getting out of his cruiser. You had lost count of the amount of people you killed that night, the amount of people who _had_ to die because they had seen your face; it wasn’t your fault, you couldn’t breathe through your mask because of that **stupid** fire. You remember being furious, grabbing Ryan by the collar of his jacket, shoving him into a brick wall, and screaming at him _why, why why?!_ You blamed his crew ( _him_ ) for everything that had gone wrong, for all the innocent life lost, without ever once pointing the finger at yourself; you were incredulous when he dared suggest that maybe you liked taking lives, liked the power it gave you--when he dared suggest you were anything like him (ironic, now that you think back on it, how right he was).

     The argument quickly devolved into something else when he finally got tired of the brick digging into the back of his head. You knew he was a large man but his baggy leather jacket didn’t do his strength justice; you yelped like a shocked child when his arms found the underside of your ass, snug against the backs of your thighs, and lifted you right off your feet with ease. It took three long-legged strides before he slammed you onto the hood of an abandoned police cruiser so hard that stars spun in your vision.

     You admittedly don’t remember _exactly_ what happened after that, but you know that at some point--after roaming, eager hands tearing at clothes and moans so loud your throat ached--he lifted his mask and flashed perfect teeth at you before sinking them into your shoulder. You had seen the stubble of a beard shining through the black paint that smeared his sharp jaw, full lips, and the way his eyes shined in the red and blue lights of the police cars; you thought he was handsome, or at least he had the potential to be.

     Damn if you weren't right.

     Michael clears his throat loudly when you take too long to answer the question and you can feel the blood building in your cheeks as you're shaken free from your memories.

     You clear your throat and utter a quick apology. You’re incredibly grateful that Gavin waited to ask until Ryan went to the kitchen to resupply everyone with drinks because there's no way he wouldn't have caught you in your fantasies; he always knows what you're thinking, especially when he's involved in the thoughts.

     Which is… pretty much always. Huh.

     You look up and meet the gaze of Gavin, who looks even more excited now that the anticipation is building. You’re starting to feel nervous because even Jack is curiously awaiting your reply. You finish the final sips of your wine and find yourself wishing you had something much stronger to calm your nerves. “It was while you guys were rescuing me,” you blurt a little louder than intended, then cringe and lower your voice. “I had a panic attack when I saw his mask.” You vividly remember begging him not to kill you and sink lower into your seat, keeping your eyes trained on your lap. “He took it off to get me to calm down.”

     Michael whistles.

     “What?” you ask with a frown.

     “He must really like you.”

     "Good to know I'm making headway at least. He used to absolutely hate my guts."

     "Oh, it sounds like you're making a lot of _head_ way," Michael agrees with the most obvious wink.

     There isn't really any use denying it, so you don't bother to. "I still don't think it was _for_  me, though," you say to clear the air. "I'm pretty sure he only did it because it was necessary to shut me the fuck up."

     Ray scoffs. “He would’ve killed any of us without hesitation before taking off his mask in a place like that and he 'likes' us. Right? I think? At least everyone but Gavin probably, ah fuck, what do I know?”

     “Awe!” Gavin cooes. “Ry-bread’s in love! That’s so cute!”

     You stare at the four people looking expectantly at you, baffled. No one says anything more--no backing up the statement, but no denying it either. Your heart skips a beat when you think about the possibility that maybe, just _maybe_ , Gavin could be right. If Ray is telling the truth, well, that would be pretty damning in and of itself; and as much as you don't really want to believe Ryan is capable of killing someone he calls a friend, you've seen proof that he would in the form of bullet scars on Geoff's body.

     “What’d I miss?” Ryan asks as he steps back into the room. He’s unmasked, has taken to simply not wearing his mask around you at all anymore, and your eyes follow the arch of his eyebrow subconsciously. He hands drinks out, approaching you last and taking the seat on the couch beside you.

     "We're just talking about how fucking happy you seem lately, Ryan," Michael supplies vaguely.

     "Yeah, it's gross," Ray adds.

     Ryan hums thoughtfully and you stare down at your twiddling thumbs, face red. "I'll be happy once we get this thorn out of our sides," he says. As he speaks he shifts on the couch to get more comfortable and his thigh presses against yours.

     The movement doesn't escape the cunning eyes of the Lads, but they seem content to drop the subject and dive right into a new topic. They're talking about previous heists but you don’t hear the details over the ringing in your ears. You stare at Ryan, at the features of his face and the expression he makes when he laughs at whatever bullshit Gavin is spouting, and you try to read him the same way that he seems to read you so well without even trying. There’s no way that he’s in _love_ with you--no, not Ryan, there’s no way, you're not even entirely sure he's capable of such an emotion. He turns to hand you a new glass of wine and, dammit, he must have figured out you were staring because he gives you a knowing little grin. You take the glass from him with a quiet thanks and you don’t miss the look Jack gives the two of you when Ryan leans back and almost too-casually places his arms over the back of the couch; his right arm is close enough to your shoulders that you can feel the heat of his skin radiating onto the back of your neck. You take a few large gulps of wine and relish in the burn it causes in your throat and stomach--you haven’t been allowed to drink since being rescued but you get a freebee tonight since the heist is fast approaching.

     Ryan acts unusually relaxed (and somehow gentlemanly?) as the night continues. He asks if you’re comfortable a few times, in reference to your position beside him or your healing injuries you’re unsure, and he refills your glass of wine whenever it runs dry. The foggier your head gets the more you find yourself leaning into him, and the more you lean into him the more his arm continues to slide around your shoulders (and the more his fingers brush the back of your neck and arm) when the others aren’t looking.

     You’re pressed up against Ryan’s side and looking up at him with wide eyes as he tells a story about how he and Ray just about got gunned down at a bank once when Geoff walks into the room to announce that dinner is ready. Ryan's arm slips lower, looping around your waist and practically dragging you into his lap. He fixes Geoff with a daring look that you don't notice as you giggle at your own light-headedness.

     Geoff looks pissed off until he notices how flushed your cheeks are. “Let her have booze before the heist and she gets drunk,” he says with a shake of the head and a fond smile. There's an underlying tightness to his words that your foggy brain doesn't recognize as jealousy ( _nervousness?_ ).

     “I’m not drunk,” you protest even though your words are slurred just a bit. You try to sit up a little straighter but your head swims and you fall back against the plush cushions. “Maybe I’m a little drunk.”

     “She’s gonna be feeling it tomorrow,” Michael snickers.

     “A quick blaze will take the edge off,” Ray comments off-handedly, never peeling his eyes away from the TV screen.

     “I think it’s good that she’s finally relaxing,” Jack says with a smile.

     “Yeah exactly, I’m just trying to help her get really relaxed.”

     Gavin, who has also had a little too much to drink, suddenly pauses the game again and crawls up onto both your and Ryan’s laps. He stretches out across your legs like a cat and reaches up to pat your head with a giddy laugh. “I think we should keep her,” he says.

     “That’s not how it works, you idiot,” Michael remarks.

     “But, but, Micoo, we gotta keep her though, boy! She’s so lovely!”

     “Eh, she’s okay,” Ray shrugs.

     “I think having another girl around is nice,” Jack comments. “It’s too much of a sausage fest around here without her.”

     “Just mad you don’t have a sausage,” Ray mutters under his breath, reaching back to unpause the game on Gavin’s controller, earning a series of protests and laughs from the other players.

     “Well it’s good that everyone is in agreement because I’m pretty fuckin’ sure she’s not going anywhere,” Michael says with a waggle of his eyebrows towards Geoff.

     You feel Ryan tense underneath you (when had you rested your head on his chest like that?) for just a moment but by the time you look up at him he’s relaxed again and his face is pleasantly calm, the same way it’s been throughout the night.

     The leader of the crew rolls his eyes, “Shut the fuck up." He sends you a playful smirk, "She isn't _that_ fuckin' great."

     A low series of _'oooohs'_ resound.

     You roll off the couch ungracefully, nearly landing on your face as you do, but you manage to get to your feet with relatively little struggle. " _You_ don't mean that," you say with a giggle, jabbing your finger into the leader's chest. "You're just mad that all your friends like **me** more."

     "Oh, is that so?" he asks, smiling happily at the fact that he caught you in his trap. He grabs you around the waist and drags you closer, eyes twinkling when he notices Ryan's frown.

     "Not me," Ray says, deadpan. "I'd never choose anyone over you, daddy."

     "Even me, X-Ray?" Gavin pipes in.

     " _Even me, X-Ray?_ " he mocks. "Of course you, fuckin' idiot."

     You laugh delightedly at the silliness of it all, at the bantering between friends and the wobble in your step. You might be a little more drunk than you originally thought--looking around you see several half-finished drinks sitting on end tables and frown. You thought tonight was supposed to be about getting loose before the stress of the approaching heist settles in, but it seems you’re the only one following that agenda.

     For years as a solo con-artist you would spend evenings before your more dangerous jobs going out for a night on the town, sharing sloppy kisses with strangers in dark corners and letting grubby men buy you booze until you couldn’t see straight. Of course, they’d always try to make a move on you (some were definitely more pushy than others), but it only ever took a brief flash of your hip piece to get them to back off. It was a tradition, one you cherished dearly.

     Now that you think about it, you haven’t had a good, stiff ( ~~anything~~ ) drink in _way_ too long. "Geoff," you drawl, leaning into him. "We should go out!"

     "You think you're in any shape to do that?"

     "C'mon, pleeeease? I wanna go dancing!" You can't remember the last time you went out with friends. In your drunken state you're craving the lights, the sweat, the burn of liquor in your throat as you down shots. "Please?" you bat your eyelashes up at him.

     "I think we should go," Michael agrees, standing and stretching out his arms. "We haven't done jack shit in forever."

     “Heh,” Ray chuckles. “Jack shit.”

     “Mature,” Jack rolls her eyes but can’t suppress her amused smile.

     "Let's do it, Geoff!" Gavin jumps on the party bandwagon.

     "Yeah boiiii! Team Nice Party-mite!" Michael cheers. The two men start jumping up and down excitedly, chattering about the last time they went out and how much fun they had, what club to go to and who's going to buy the first round of drinks for the crew.

     "Well I guess I’ll call some taxis," Jack says with a fond smile as she stands.

     “It’s called Uber now,” Ray mutters. “Dumbass.”

     You grin, already mentally planning exactly what to wear--you’ve got an outfit or two in mind that should do an excellent job at catching you the attention you seek. Your gaze lingers on Geoff and the lines of his face as he smiles, but you can still feel the warmth of Ryan’s body against your side and, oh yeah, you have a tight, sparkly skirt Jack gave you that should do just the trick. You feel anticipation tickle across your skin.

     “Alright, assholes,” Geoff speaks, “let’s show Los Santos how the Fakes party.”

 

     The dance floor is alive with movement, all pulsing bodies and deep, thumping bass. The drink in your hand sloshes precariously but the stranger who has a tight hold on your hips doesn't seem to mind. You close your eyes and throw your sweat-soaked hair over your shoulder, reaching up with your free hand to hold your suitor's neck as you dance with him.

     You haven’t stopped dancing since you reached the club and you’ve lost track of the amount of shots pushed into your hands by overzealous men. Your body is slicked with sweat, your curves sliding easily against the hold of handsy drunks, and your tight skirt is beginning to ride up the backs of your thighs. You’re glad you wore a loose shirt, at least, because it leaves room for cool air to flow freely against your overheated skin.

     You peel open an eye to take a blurry glance around the establishment, searching for your friends (one _friend_ , in particular). You grind your body shamelessly against the nameless, faceless patron behind you in hopes that it will spark _something_ \--that extra edge you need to make this night perfect--but even through the haze of alcohol that fogs your senses you can tell the man isn’t firm enough, isn’t tall enough, isn’t strong enough to handle you. Tonight is all about letting go of inhibitions, living in the moment, treating the night as if it’s your last because it very well could be in your line of work.

     You spot curly red hair first. Gavin and Michael have occupied the bar and seem to be engaged in a serious competition about who can buy the other the worst tasting shot. You continue tracing the neon lights that line the underside of the bartop and notice that Jack is sitting nearby the rambunctious duo, sipping a martini of her own and laughing hysterically each time Gavin almost throws up--you can hear her laugh loud and clear over the music when Michael buys Gavin what looks awfully close to a cement mixer. You offer an unseen, sympathetic wince when the British man throws both concoctions back and then immediately spits them both out all over himself.

     Through a laughing fit Michael manages to catch your wandering gaze and he nods his head to the left for you; you twist your body appropriately and your leech of a dancing partner gladly follows the sway of your form. You have to squint in order to see Geoff and Ray (who really didn't want to go in the first place, but acquiesced after some pitiful pleading from you) sitting in the corner where the music isn't so loud and the lights aren't so bright, talking animatedly about something you can't even hope to hear. From what you can tell--which isn’t much--they seem to be having fun. You smile.

     It doesn’t take long for Geoff to feel your eyes on him, he’s a trained professional in the art of remaining anonymous after all, and you think you see a dark eyebrow lift in silent question. You raise a hand and beckon him over with a crook of your finger; much to your disappointment he laughs and shakes his head. You put on your best pout, hoping it will be enough to sway him, but when you look up again his attention is back on Ray.

     You huff exaggeratedly--if he wants to sit in the corner all night, fine.

     Now there’s only one crew member left for you to find. You have a feeling that _he_ won’t disappoint. Instead of seeking him out you redouble your efforts with the man behind you, arching you back to press your ass a little further into his groin and rolling your body in smooth, rhythmic waves. The song switches to something slower and you feel his hands creep towards your bare thighs.

     "Mind if I cut in?" Ryan’s voice cuts through the sound of the club like a knife.

     "The lady is with me," the stranger tries to sound tough but when you turn your head and see Ryan standing there, taller, _larger_ , with a menacing aura to match, you can’t help but roll your eyes.

     You don’t bat an eyelash when Ryan grabs the man by the collar of his shirt and lifts him up like a ragdoll. “I think you’re mistaken about that,” he says evenly.

     You twist your head to catch a glimpse at the fear in the man’s eyes and it causes excitement to pinprick across your arms. He gives in quickly, too quickly for your liking, and you watch with a bored expression as he scurries away from the dancefloor like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs. “That was pretty rude.” You turn towards Ryan and feel suddenly like you’ve been kicked in the gut--he’s so _fucking_ good looking, it’s not fair. He’s wearing a dark dress-shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and slacks that hug his thick thighs just right. His long hair is pulled into a messy ponytail at the nape of his neck, leavings wisps of it to fall into his face and trace along the edge of his jaw.

     “You didn’t want to dance with him,” Ryan intones. He takes your hand and spins you around in a quick motion that leaves your world spinning and a surprised giggle on your lips, but when he catches you around the waist and draws you backwards into his body you gasp. He fits himself snuggly against you, hard edges pressed into plush curves, and plants his lips against the back of your ear. “You’ve been trying to rile me up all night, haven’t you?”

     “I would never,” you breathe. You sway against him to the music that surrounds you, taking comfort in the fact that you blend in easily to the sea of bodies that occupy the dancefloor.

     He hums long and low and you feel the vibration of it against your throat. “I bet you would have loved to see lose my temper, hm?” One of his large hands finds your hip while the other reaches up and rests between your shoulder-blades. “Did you want to watch me rip his throat out in front of everyone?” he asks with a nip to your earlobe before he shoves against your back. You tip forward but his vice grip on your hip keeps your feet in place. You look over your shoulder at him and sink your teeth into the ruby red that paints your lower lip as he rolls his hips against your ass in a movement that is positively _obscene_.

     “Maybe,” you concede with a coy little smile. You have to admit he already looks fantastic, but add a little blood spatter to that crisp shirt and you have a feeling he’d look _delectable_.

     He grabs you by the wrist hard enough to bruise and hauls you back up, turning your body in his arms so that you face him and slotting one of his legs between yours (he seems completely uncaring about the fact that you’re wearing a _skirt_ and that the position nearly makes the small piece of fabric useless). Before your blurry brain can process the motion he has his hand on your lower back and dips you down low. He swings you back up like he’s some sort of fucking dance guru and you laugh loudly once you’re standing upright again.

     “You know how to dance?” you ask incredulously.

     “Maybe,” he mimics you with a sly smile of his own.

     You place your hands against his chest and give him the cheekiest grin you can muster before you start swaying in earnest. To his credit, he holds his own against you--he’s surprisingly limber for his size, and he clearly knows how to leave a woman hot under the collar. His muscles flex under your roaming fingertips, his thigh pushes up against you until you’re practically riding his leg, and you’re _loving_ it.

     “You’re so fucking stacked,” you say earnestly. The statement leaves your mouth unwarranted but you can’t find a reason to care in your drunken stupor. You squeeze at his shoulders, his biceps, dig your fingertips in until you can feel the sinewy tissue give against the pressure. His groan gives you that much more confidence and you clench your thighs around his leg, tracing your fingers up to his neck where you find the line of his carotid artery and push the pad of your thumb against it.

     He bares his teeth as you cut off the blood-flow to his brain, and when you finally ease up the look he gives you is lidded and lustful. He grabs you by the back of the neck and draws you in until his mouth brushes yours when he speaks. “Be careful,” he warns. “You know what happens when you excite me.”

     You do a quick survey of your surroundings, of the drunken, dancing crowd. You see Jack, Gavin, and Michael doing a shot-ski at the bar, Geoff and Ray still chatting it up in the corner, everyone none-the-wiser. You think briefly about Geoff, about his gentle touch and sweet kisses; you think about what it would be like to love a man like him, to have a _life_ with a man like him--it would be so perfect, so easy, so safe, and so… so…

_Boring_.

     He would do anything to protect you, you know that. But you also know that you’re good at your job (most of the time); you’ve been doing it for years just like him and his crew, and even that isn’t enough to stop him from wanting to hold you back. You know he feels at least partially responsible for what happened with Tinkerbell, but the fact of the matter is that it was _your_ fault. It’s something you were already prepared for--even if you weren’t prepared for the sheer amount of pain you endured--because the risk comes with the territory. You just aren’t sure he’s willing to accept that.

     You aren’t willing to give up your title for him, not when the only reason he’d ever want you to give it up is simply for peace of mind. You know he’s not even asking you to give it up-- _hasn’t_ asked you to--but you can’t shake the feeling that it’s what he wants. And you’re too much of a coward to have the conversation and be right because it would absolutely crush you.

     And **Ryan** \--well, he’s something else entirely.

     Your body seems to need his like the desert needs the rain.

     Your mind seems to yearn for his like the moon yearns for the sun.

     You have history, chemistry, _respect_ for each other. You’ve _killed_ for each other (he has admittedly killed more for you, but you can distinctly remember a few times when you shot a cop behind him while he was busy looking you up and down).

     You trust him and he _excites_ you.

     “Ryan,” you whisper, soft enough to peak his curiosity. “Were you only at the party to get intel?” You lean away from him enough to lock eyes and you see a storm brewing in the blue depths as he mulls the question over. You’re aware that it’s a touchy subject, especially with how much vile bullshit you spewed at him about it, but you can’t help but wonder.

     “I was,” he replies coldly. He sees you flinch and raises a hand to cup your cheek, “But then I saw you there, with _him_ .” You feel his muscles tense beneath your fingers as his disposition shifts from relaxed to fatal in an instant. “He had you in his car before I could reach you, when I saw that mother _fucker_ put that rag over your mouth…”

     He’s quivering with rage and people around you are starting to notice his deadly vibe. You place gentle, reassuring kisses against his cheek. “I’m right here, Ry. I’m safe.”

     He releases a breath and drops his forehead to your shoulder. “I nearly throttled Jack for stopping me from interfering.”

     Air catches in your throat, confusion dominating your demeanor. _Interfering?_ “What are you talking about?” you ask skeptically. “You were there to gather intel, you--you couldn’t do anything because you were unmasked.”

     “Who fed you that line?” He grabs your wrist and drags your hand around to the back pocket of his slacks where you can feel the unmistakable outline of his folded mask. “Be prepared for any situation. Rule one.” He nudges his nose against yours in a surprisingly affectionate gesture. “I was ready to run after that car, with or without the Vagabond.”

     You shudder, both because of the sincerity of his words and the sudden, vibrant betrayal you feel burning like fire beneath your skin. Geoff only ever told you that Ryan didn’t go after you-- _he never told you he tried_. Something dark and vengeful churns in your stomach, something that you’ll have to save for later because right now you need something else, something to get your mind off the anger storming within you. “If we find Tinkerbell,” you muse, twirling a strand of his sandy hair around your finger, “what are you going to do to him?”

     Ryan smirks sinisterly, enjoying the unusual, sudden shift in attitude. “ _When_ we find Tinkerbell,” he says against your temple, “I’m going to copy on him every scar he gave you, and then…” he chuckles darkly, “ **we’re** going to make him regret the day he ever thought about fucking with the Princess.”

      _We_. You and Ryan, Princess and the Vagabond. A team.

     Steady warmth pools between your legs. You lean up on your toes, still shorter than him despite the stiletto heels, and run your tongue along the seam of his lips. You hear the air escape him as he opens his mouth for you, catches your tongue against his own; the grip on the back of your neck tightens as he drags you deeper into the kiss, slanting his mouth against yours and moaning deeply. You bite his lip when you pull away, looking up at him through your long lashes. “Show me what you want to do to _me_ , now,” you challenge him. And then, tauntingly, in a whisper meant only for him, “ _Vagabond_.”

     He’s hauling you away from the dancefloor in an instant, growling irritatedly when your stumbling pace can’t keep up with his own. He had planned on taking you into the bathroom but you’re too _slow_ and the exit is right there, so he shoves it open and drags you outside into the alleyway.

     The cold air on your overheated skin makes you hiss but you have no time to complain when Ryan shoves you against the grimey bricks and presses his lips back against yours. It’s amateurish in its intensity, clacking teeth and sloppy with saliva, but you moan avidly all the same. You want him to mark you up, to leave hickies all over your neck and shoulders and chest-- **everywhere** his mouth can reach--but you don’t have time. You shove against his shoulders and his chest rumbles with warning.

     “Ryan,” you pant, reaching up and grabbing ahold of his ponytail. You yank at it, forcing his head back so you can meet his eyes. “I’m reconsidering your offer.”

     You see a flash of confusion, brief, before a smile bordering on crazed splits his face. “We can make that work,” he agrees, detaching himself from you so that he can turn and rest his back against the club wall.

     Your descent to your knees is less than graceful but it doesn’t matter the second you have your fingers in the belt loops of his pants, tugging them down; you're not really surprised when you find out he's not wearing anything underneath them. "A little bold, don’t you think?" you raise an eyebrow up at him.

     He pets his fingers through your hair, "I figured I wouldn't be needing them tonight." Once his hand finds the back of your head he pulls you forward none-too-gently, until your nose is pressed against his crotch. "I guess I was right."

     You simultaneously hate that he's right and love that he's so confident in the way you feel about him. If you were a better person you wouldn't even consider looking in his direction, but you're _not_ and he damn well knows it. He's _okay_ with it and it gives you some twisted sense of relief. You can feel the heat of him against your cheek, the musky scent of him (one that you’re all too familiar with) in your nose--it makes your head swim with promise. You turn and your tongue lolls out of your mouth to finally catch a taste of his cock, already wet with strands of precum. Your eyes roll back and you curse yourself for denying yourself this, this passion, this taboo, for far too long. "It can't be comfortable," you say between kisses pressed to the pulsing vein on the underside of his shaft.

     He shrugs nonchalantly, "It's worth it." He takes hold of the roots of your hair and pulls demandingly, the way you knew he would, and you open your mouth willingly for him (the way he knew you would). A huff leaves his mouth as you wrap your lips around the head of him--you wonder how much he'll let you get away with before his control snaps. You give him small licks, turning mischief filled eyes up towards him when you refuse to budge as he presses insistently against your scalp. "You're asking for it, kitten," he says, low and dangerous, clearly a final warning.

     You lean away with a smirk that you learned _from him_ (the same smirk you saw for years each time he lifted his mask to scar your flesh with his teeth), and you can tell he notices the similarity when his eyes flash. You dig your nails into the skin of his thighs, batting your eyelashes innocently when he hisses at the short burst of pain. You don’t have to lie to Ryan, you never have, and you know in the deep recesses of your mind that what leaves your mouth next is the honest-to-god truth. “I want you to fucking _choke_ me.”

     “ _Oh, baby girl,_ ” he purrs, stroking his thumb gently along your cheekbone. “I’m going to **wreck** you.” His eyes burn brighter when he sees the shiver tear through your body. “Open up for me,” he commands, voice deep and even and wicked.

     Your jaw falls slack and you stick out your tongue for him eagerly.

     He shoves his cock between your lips and doesn’t stop until it reaches your throat, then continues to press deeper until he’s forced all of himself into you. He holds you there as tears blur your vision and the need for air becomes violent. When he finally relents it’s only long enough for you to release a sputtering cough before he’s forcing your mouth back where he wants it. He fucks into your throat without abandon, grunting and groaning and tightening his hold on you until your skull feels like it’s on fire.

     Tears are flowing down your cheeks, drool pooling in the hollow between your collarbones--your jaw aches and your knees are scraped and bloody against the concrete. You're so turned on it _hurts_. You reach between your thighs and rub quick circles into your clit, moaning wantonly as Ryan continues to rut against your face.

     "Like a bitch in heat," he mutters, voice hoarse from overexertion. He tips his head back to rest it against the wall and closes his eyes, a laugh bubbling between his lips when his grip on you slackens but the pace doesn't stop. He should really stop underestimating you when you’ve over-exceeded his expectations at every turn, when you keep up with him in a way nobody else can. Your cute little smirk flashes behind his eyelids and he feels a wave of strong arousal pool low in his stomach.

     Your mind is blissfully numb for the first time in _ages_ , your sole focus on the pleasure that’s building within you and the man whose cock is starting to twitch against the back of your tongue. The sounds you’re making are crude, slurping and slapping and panting, and they’re echoing in the alleyway loud enough that you’re sure passersby can hear. You’re so wet that you’ve soaked your fingers and you can feel drool slipping between your breasts to join the sweat that formed there while you were dancing.

     “Ah,” Ryan gasps when you change your tactic, pulling away from him just slightly in order to suck until your cheeks are hollow. “ _Fuck_.” He sighs your name reverently over and over as he nears his end. He looks down at you, at the way your perfect, red-stained lips are stretched around the base of his cock, at the way your mascara has created black streaks from your eyes to your neck. Your hair has fallen out of its perfect style and your skirt is bunched around your waist, thong strings pushed aside to make room for your fingers. “You’ve never looked like this for Geoff, have you?” he asks thickly.

     You hum around him in affirmation.

     “You’ve never looked like this for _anyone_ , have you?”

     You pull off him and press your tongue flat against the base of his weeping cock. “No one but you,” you croak.

     “That’s right, baby, no one but me.”

     You have a singular moment to contemplate the pet names--the fact that you’ve never really liked them, but that the sound of them in the tone of Ryan’s voice might be changing your mind--and then he’s dragging you forward harshly, thrusting into your mouth twice before his fist clenches against the back of your neck and he cums down your throat with a grunt. He holds you against himself and you do your best to swallow what you can, but it doesn’t stop some of it from driveling from the corners of your mouth. After a moment of labored breathing Ryan releases you and you fall onto your ass, gasping some much needed air into your burning lungs. Your entire body aches and you have a sneaking suspicion you won’t be able to speak without substantial pain tomorrow. You can’t find it in yourself to regret anything.

     Ryan kneels down, pushes a few strands of hair behind your ear, and then kisses you deeply, groaning when he tastes himself on your tongue. You almost sob when his large fingers trace delicately along you inner thigh. “ _Ryan_ ,” you plead breathily, the rest of whatever words you were about to say cut off when he easily slides two thick digits into your heat. He doesn’t make you wait long, his fingers immediately curling to press exactly where you need them to in order to see white behind your eyelids. His thumb presses into your clit and you convulse against him, but it isn’t _enough_.

     You scramble to grab the wrist of his free hand, quickly pulling it up to rest around your neck; when you see his eyebrow raise you press against his large fingers encouragingly.

     The sated look in his eyes darkens and he squeezes his thumb and forefinger into the sides of your neck, cutting off blood-flow and airflow all at once. Your eyes roll back as you hover over the edge of unconsciousness and you clench hard around the digits moving inside of you. You stare into his eyes, bright and oh so blue, and it only takes one more flick of his wrist before your world is shattering.

     Your thighs quiver as you cum, your head falling forward to land on his shoulder with a soft thump. You're struggling to catch your breath, chest heaving, your throat already beginning to ache from the inside and out; you can feel the ghost of his fingers on your skin where you're sure you'll bruise. You feel his body shaking and you grunt a questioning note.

     He's laughing, you realize. “You weren’t kidding about the choking."

     You whine when his fingers leave you, mildly embarrassed by the squelching sound it makes. You take a moment to continue focusing on breathing before you reply; you think about the right thing to say, the right joke to make. “You weren’t joking about running after the car.” It isn't what you meant to say, it isn't a joke or a snarky comment; it’s vulnerable, open in a way you haven’t been with him very often.

     “I wasn’t,” he says simply.

     It's enough. You know he isn’t lying.

     He kisses you again and you fall into it, into him, happily. His strong arms lift you up off the ground and hold you steady until your legs stop shaking, his mouth moving to pepper your neck with gentle bites. You slowly right your clothing, pulling your skirt and shirt back into their proper positions, giggling when you have to swat his hands away a few times.

     “We have to get back inside,” you say eventually.

     “I say we go with option B.”

     “And what’s option B?”

     “Get a cab, go back to your place, maybe make a few kids.”

     You roll your eyes, “Because obviously we’re great parent material.”

     He shrugs, “Worth a shot.”

     You laugh and find yourself thinking how strange it is to be having such a normal conversation with him--in all the years you’ve known him you’ve only ever sought one thing from each other, and when you weren’t busy with that it was only ever yelling and cursing. After being rescued from Tinkerbell it was only more of the same, just bad tempers and arguments. You’d seen glimpses of this man a few times when the other members of the crew were around; you’d seen a quick-witted, dry-humored man with an honest smile who you had never gotten to know. Like the difference between the Geoff you first met and the Geoff who leads the Fake AH Crew, you’re beginning to wonder if there’s more of a difference between Ryan and the Vagabond than you originally thought.

     Afterall, the Vagabond you know wouldn’t have risked exposing himself to save you. According to what the lads told you earlier in the night, the Vagabond _they_ know wouldn’t have either.

     The thought of it makes something in your chest bloom with warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was originally quite similar to chapter 17 of Playing with Fire, but I decided to add about 15 pages of filth instead of write the heist right away. I had a difficult time ironing out the ending, so I might go back and tweak it at some point before the next chapter drops, but for now I wanted to get this out for you all.
> 
> I hope you like my sins!


	3. Always

     You end up having to be carried home from the club that night--you don’t remember which crew member lifted you, or what time it was, or how many shots you had taken. You lost track of the evening as soon as Michael drunkenly dared you to take a Four Horsemen shot and you cockily challenged him back saying you’d up the ante by taking two. You think he may have done three before rushing to the bathroom to hurl it all back up. 

     You wake up the next morning with a killer migraine, bad enough that the slivers of sunlight streaming in through the blinds make your brain feel like it’s about to burst. You try closing your eyes but a shift onto your side makes your stomach churn violently and you quickly have to stumble your way into the bathroom on unstable legs in order to throw up the contents of your stomach. It isn’t until after you brush your teeth and take a hot,  _ hot _ shower that the events of the night slowly begin coming back to you. 

     The lights, the dancing.

     The alleyway.

     You towel yourself off gradually, staring at your body in the foggy mirror as you do; your hips are covered in long lines of yellow-green bruises and your neck is decorated with splotchy patches of color. You touch your lips, puffy and red, and can’t find a single reason to feel ashamed. In the forefront of your mind, louder than the memory of Ryan’s hands on you, the laughter you shared with Jack at the bar, the dance you (bribed) forced Ray into, is the memory of Geoff’s _ deception _ . 

     He lied to you, told you in your most defenseless moment that Ryan had just let Tinkerbell take you in order to save his own ass, let the goons torture you for days just because he didn’t want to risk showing his face. You should’ve known something was amiss the moment the Vagabond took his mask off after rescuing you--if he wasn’t willing to show his face to one man there’s no way he would have done so while surrounded by _ several _ men who wanted him dead. No, Ryan would have gone after you. 

     He would have saved you, would never have let them touch you.

     You trace your fingertips over the jagged lines of scars that raise your skin; you’re covered in them, barely an inch of your flesh left untouched by a knife or a burn. They serve as memories of horror carved into you that  _ Ryan could have prevented _ .

     You’ll have some words for Geoff when the heist is over.

     You leave the room-- _ Geoff’s _ room, you realize at some point--in a baggy, long-sleeved shirt three times your size with no pants on underneath it, your hair piled into a messy bun on the top of your head. You have bags the size of semi-trucks under your eyes and your temples are pulsing madly. You shuffle your bare feet down the cool hallway at a snail's pace, following the sounds of voices towards the kitchen.

     Jack, Geoff, Ryan, and Ray greet you with anticipatory smiles when you finally reach them. Geoff and Ray are at the table, discarded plates covered in crumbs sitting nearby. Ryan is leaning against the counter with an incredibly smug look in his eyes when he sees the state of you, and Jack is busy preparing an enormous breakfast over the stovetop. There are plates stacked high with pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon, and sausage peeking out from behind Ryan and it smells  **incredible** .

     “There’s the lady of the hour,” Jack speaks.

     “About time you woke up,” Geoff teases. If he notices any of your bruises, he doesn't say anything.

     “Mm,” you grunt, rubbing at your eyes and making your way towards the food. Ryan doesn’t move as you approach and you don’t bother asking him to--you simply plant your face into the center of his chest and reach around him to snag a piece of bacon from the top of the pile. You feel the heave of his scoff against your face, but then he’s reaching up and massaging his fingers across your aching scalp and you think you can forgive him for laughing at your sorry state.

     No one says anything about the odd display of closeness--likely blaming your disorientaed state on your hangover (or possibly the fact that you spent last night hanging all over the man)--but Geoff’s tattooed knuckles tighten imperceptibly around his coffee mug.

     “I feel like death,” your words are muffled into the fabric of Ryan’s shirt.

     “You smell like death too,” Ray agrees.

     “Gee thanks.”

     “My bad, I meant look.”

     “I think she looks exactly the way she’s supposed to after drinking as much as she did last night,” Jack says with a laugh, sprinkling some mini-chocolate chips into one of the pancakes she’s cooking. “She went toe to toe with Michael last night; if she woke up looking as good as she usually does, I might have to kick her ass.”

     “Jack nooo,” you whine, peeling yourself away from Ryan and tucking your arms around the redhead’s waist, nuzzling your cheek into her back. “You're the prettiest lady I know."

     Rat clears his throat loudly.

     "Except for Ray, of course." You rest your chin on Jack’s shoulder and pop your mouth open, giggling happily when she rolls her eyes and obliges you, ripping off a small piece of pancake with her spatula and feeding it to you. You peck her on the cheek as thanks. 

     “And what was that for?” she asks slyly.

     “You cook, you feed me, you’re hot, you rob banks for a living,” you list, giving her a playful squeeze. “Can’t I just marry you?” She laughs one of those hearty belly laughs that makes you grin ear to ear despite the splitting pain it causes.

     “Jack always gets the good ones,” Geoff jokes with a shake of his head.

     “Unfortunately for you, I’m already spoken for,” she says, and then in a whisper that you can just barely hear over the sizzling pans, “And I’m pretty sure you have enough complication in that field as is without my help.” She says it so surely, so knowingly, so  _ motherly _ \--you know it’s a gentle warning for a conversation to come later.

     You opt to ignore the statement for now, stepping away from her and hopping up to sit on the counter. “I didn’t know you were seeing someone?” you ask curiously; Jack has always done the best of anyone in the crew at keeping her personal life under wraps. 

     “Really? I was under the impression that you knew her.”

     The pieces churn in your addled mind for a few minutes before finally clicking into place. “Caiti!” you exclaim and then instantly regret it when your head pounds ferociously. You wince and snap your eyes shut. Geoff quickly rises to his feet and brews you a cup of coffee that smells rich and strong, offering it to you along with a bottle of aspirin that he was apparently keeping in his pocket. “Thank you,” you offer him a grateful smile.

     He brushes a stray piece of hair away from your forehead and gently tucks it back into place in your bun. “I figured you were going to need it,” he says softly.

     You feel a weird pull in your chest that you can’t explain; for a second he reminded you of the Geoff you knew before you got involved with the Fakes. The Geoff who would make you your favorite meals every night before settling down on the couch for a movie date, who took care of the injuries you lied to him about after your first date. The Geoff you wanted to love. 

     You frown and shake yourself out of that line of thought. Instead you think about Caiti, about the way she said Jack’s name when she told you she was protected. “I always wondered how Caiti stayed so safe in her line of work. I guess it makes sense now.”

     Jack looks over her shoulder and flashes you one of the most genuine smiles you’ve ever seen. “We keep a close eye on the people we love. I appreciate you checking up on her after we rescued you.”

     “Of course. She’s always been a good friend to me.”

     “Are you shitheads being loud enough in here?” a grumpy tone demands suddenly. Michael is leaning against the doorframe, pressing his fingers deep into his eye-sockets in an attempt to quell his steadily building headache. “All I wanted was to fuckin’ sleep in.”

     You shrug an unforgiving shoulder, "No amount of sleep is going to cure this hangover."

     He groans and bobs his head in what you think is a nod. "I feel that. Jack, you making breakfast?"

     "Nope, just standing in front of the stove because I feel like it."

     “I so don’t need your shit this morning,” he mutters as he takes a seat at the kitchen table. “Where’s Gavin?”

     “Still asleep,” Geoff replies without glancing up, swiping through an article on his phone.

     “That bastard, I’m gonna--” He moves to stand but the quick motion immediately has him holding a palm to his forehead and groaning miserably as he falls back into his chair. “ _ Fuck _ .”

     “Feel like death?” you ask into the steam rolling off your coffee.

     “Something like that.”

     “You smell like it too,” Ray adds.

     The rest of the morning passes slowly in the same comfortable, uneventful manor. It actually feels nice to not have to do anything for once--despite the fact that it was your idea to go out last night in the first place. Gavin wakes up eventually, looking far worse than you or Michael had; he eagerly stuffs his face with the cold leftovers from the morning meal and whines about how he’ll never like ‘Micoo’ choose his drinks ever again. You all laugh at the obvious lie. 

     You spend the day lounging, forcing your way into the spot on the loveseat between Michael and Gavin, curling into their sides and napping on and off as the others play video games and go over the details of the upcoming heist. Jack keeps a careful eye on the three of you, always making sure you have enough water and food and buckets when Gavin sporadically sits up and gags violently.

     By the time the evening rolls around you’re feeling a bit better, a bit livelier and more yourself. You don’t have the self-restraint to deny Ray’s challenge to a game of Beerio-Kart and by the fourth race you’re regretting every decision you’ve ever made. Gavin just laughs at your misfortune, and Michael’s when he eventually joins as well.

     You have to admit it’s a hell of a lot of fun despite the vomiting. 

     The world is blurry again when you blink open your eyes in the middle of the night. You’re in bed, tucked beneath a cool sheet, a perspiring glass of water on the end-table beside you. You feel the warm and inviting presence of someone else beside you, hear the deep and even breathing as they sleep, but you don’t roll towards them.

     You remember leaning against Ryan’s knees and drunkenly giggling when you lost another race. Ray tore into you about it, about how terrible at everything you are, while Michael demanded a rematch because you hadn’t finished your drink before the end of the match. You remember blearily blinking up at Geoff’s exhausted half-smile when he lifted you off the floor and into his arms at some point after the third round of races.

     You know you’re in Geoff’s bed because you recognize the feel and the smell of the mattress; you recognize the sound of his deep breathing, too, but you try not to think too much about it. You roll onto your side so that you face away from him and try to go back to sleep.

     The heist is only a day and a half away. 

     You only have to keep your mouth shut for that much longer.

     You try not to think about the pain, the deception, the argument it’s going to cause, but your dreams are filled with vile images of clenched fists and angry tears and beautiful tattoos. 

 

     It’s easier to pretend to be engaged to Gavin than you thought it would be, even with the pounding headache from your hangover (if you're ever invited for another heist you are never, ever, ever drinking the day before--and the day before that, and before _ that _ \--ever again). You hold hands and give each other doting looks and tell the jeweler your made-up story about how you met; you have her absolutely swooning over the two of you almost instantly. You tell her that Gavin (Justin you call him on whim because you hadn’t come up with fake names beforehand) had flown to the States after years of speaking to one another online to ask your father’s permission to marry you and had proposed on a beach at dusk, and that you both couldn’t be happier. Gavin smiles wide and recounts the first time he saw your face and how beautiful you were in person and you know you have her, hook, line, and sinker, when you see the look on her face as he speaks. She enthusiastically leads you right to the most expensive section of wedding rings, all big, flashy diamonds surrounded by more diamonds, and begins rattling off why each and every one of them will be perfect for you. She sizes your finger and you’re trying on one of the most expensive rings in the store when Geoff and Ryan burst through the front doors. You’re so into your role that you’re genuinely surprised by their entrance and jolt when they start yelling instructions towards the jeweler.

     The woman gives a scream for help that’s cut short when Geoff trains his gun on her. Ryan quickly shoots out every camera that you informed them about over the com when you had first entered the store, and then starts smashing the glass cases and shoving as much gold and jewels into his bag as he can.

     You force your body to shake and cling tightly to Gavin’s arm as the jeweler grabs some of the cash from the register and gives it over to Geoff, all the while begging him not to hurt her. “Hurry it up!” he snaps impatiently. Alarms suddenly start to go off in the store, loud and blaring, and Geoff growls low in his throat and shoots the jeweler in the head. He’s quick to grab the rest of the cash from the register himself as people along the street begin to approach the commotion. “I thought we’d make it out before she tripped the stupid alarm,” he says more to himself than to anyone else.

     You turn your head as Ryan saunters towards you slowly, leisurely even with the alarms blaring and people on the street starting to shout. Gavin steps in front of you and puffs out his chest in a gesture of protection that’s so sweet you raise your hand to your chest and almost smile.

     “Empty your pockets and you might not end up like her,” Ryan says, motioning with his gun to the limp body of the jeweler.

     His voice is low, lower than normal, and you have to fight to maintain your panicked appearance around the feeling of blood rushing to your cheeks.

     Gavin actually begins reaching for his pockets but he’s cut off when Geoff shouts: “We’ve gotta get out of here, Alpha Two!” He shoulders his bag and takes off running into the street before Ryan has time to reply.

     The Vagabond gives Gavin a little wink and the British man gives the most minute nod back before running after Geoff with a heroic shout of “Stop, thief! ”  

     You actually do smile this time, because this is the first time you’ve ever worked with anyone on a job and you had no idea it would all be so theatrical, but your smile quickly vanishes when Ryan grabs you none-too-gently by the arm and drags you towards him.

     He spins you in his arms, holds you close, and presses his gun to your temple a little harder than necessary. “Time for the fun part,” he whispers into your ear.

     You clutch your fingers around the arm that’s holding you, trying to ignore the way his body feels so snug against your back (trying to ignore the memories of times before when you were in the same position but wearing much less), and scream for help from the terrified onlookers. Sirens ring louder than the alarm as three police cars round the corners onto the street and screech to a halt in front of the store; armed cops begin pouring out of their vehicles and Ryan’s arm tightens around you just a little. “Please, help me!” you cry to them, struggling weakly to escape.

     “ _ Sweetheart _ ,” he breathes against your neck, clearly excited by the situation. “You know no one can save you from me.”

     Your body blooms with warmth, goosebumps rising along your arms and legs.

     The police begin trying to reason with the Vagabond, trying to get him to release you, when the com rings loud in both of your ears.

     “There’s been a change of plan!” Jack’s voice yells. “Apparently some other goodie-two-shoes followed Bravo Two to help chase down Alpha One and they brought the heat with them! We’ve got cops everywhere! Team Bravo and Team Alpha need to make a run for it!”

     “Fuck,” Ryan curses lowly.

     “What about the building?!” Michael shouts. “You idiots have the C4!”

     “Charlie One, you have just as many explosives!” Jack reminds. “You’re going to need to take care of it!”

     “Fuck! Fine! Team Delta, get your asses out of there, now!”

     “Why did I think this was ever gonna go right?” Ray sighs.

     You hear gunfire as Ray begins sniping police and civilians alike outside. 

     You thought it would… affect you more. You thought that the sight, the  **sound** , of innocent people being gunned down would tug at whatever moral sense remained within you. It always had before, during your solo jobs when some idiot would become an accidental casualty. Apparently you lost your faith in the innocence of other people in that dark room because watching the bodies outside fall to the pavement makes you feel absolutely nothing.

     You take the moment of confusion as everyone tries to figure out where the shots are coming from to tug your mask from your collar and pull it over your face. Ryan hands you the extra gun he has strapped to his belt and the two of you begin taking down people one shot at a time--even that isn't enough to make you feel anything other than a cold indifference. You both take cover behind the doorframe and take turns shooting and reloading, shooting and reloading, over and over as the bodies begin to pile up. Bullets fly through the door and into the walls behind you at intermittent rates so you make your best judgement for when to turn and fire back--you have a few close calls, bullets whizzing past your ears and embedding into the ground near your feet. The sound of shattering glass is loud enough to drown out the sound of the bullets and sirens as the cops shoot out the windows on either side of the storefront; bullets soon begin to rain in from all sides and you wince when one grazes your shoulder. You curse when you hear the distant sound of more approaching sirens.

     “My position’s been compromised,” Ray speaks evenly into the com. “Charlie One, how much time before you can blow the place?”

     “I’m moving as fast as I can! T-minus five minutes so I’d recommend leaving now if you haven’t already!” Michael supplies.

     You turn to find Ryan already staring at you. “On my signal,” he says.

     You wait with baited breath, feeling like your heart is in your throat, until there’s a lull in the bullets long enough and Ryan stands and waves you forward. You stay close behind him, taking out the remaining cops that you can see, but more police cars are whirring around the corner on either side of the street. You can’t remember the last time you were in such a sticky situation and your adrenaline is beginning to give way to something new, something  _ thrilling _ . 

     You feel a whirlwind of excitement and terror and confusion but you don't have time to think about what any of it means before Ryan grabs for your hand and starts running, leading you down an unmarked alleyway a few buildings down. “Team Delta is clear,” he gives the signal and not a second later there’s a massive explosion as the jewelry store blows. It’s loud enough that it makes your ears ring but Ryan keeps pulling you along, shouting orders that you don’t hear.

     “I’m grabbing the car and going to get Charlie Two,” Michael informs over the com, his voice dull in your ear.

     “Yeah well hurry the fuck up, we may or may not have a helicopter on the way,” Ray actually sounds a bit shaken and it makes your stomach drop.

     You can hear the echo of bullets clattering through the alleyway behind you, hear the muted shouts of police-officers to one another, and the unnamed feeling in your stomach heightens. You keep your gun at the ready, twist your head to check behind you every few seconds, but the further Ryan drags you the further away the cops sound and the less gunshots you hear. You feel relieved when you see a street come into view (Ryan had led you through so many twists and turns in the alley that you weren’t sure _ he  _ even knew where he was anymore), until you notice two cop cars waiting for you. You hear the distinct sound of helicopter blades and you stick close to Ryan as you see one fly overhead, spotlight shining down as it helps search the alley.

     “Fuck,” Ryan mutters, sticking tight to the brick wall and peeking around the corner. The cops are patrolling the street with their guns raised, clearly aware that you fled into the alleys but not exactly sure where you are--that’s good, at least, probably the only silver-lining to the entire fucked up situation right now.

     “Status report, Team Delta!” Geoff calls over the com.

     You press the button on your earpiece. “Not great,” you whisper. "Not terrible either. Should we give you our last words just in case?"

     “Where are you?!" He sounds frenzied and you feel a little bad for your poorly timed joke. You blame it on the fact that you’ve been around Ray too much recently.

     You don’t have time to apologize or to answer his question--you barely have time to hear the shout of warning. You watch as two bullets rip through Ryan’s arm and shoulder, the back of his jacket shredding at the point where one passes through, blood splattering to the ground behind him. You draw in a sharp breath and rush to him, catching him as the impact knocks him off his feet, stumbling under the weight of his body. “Alph--Delta One is hit,” you say into the intercom frantically, wincing as you hear the panic in your own voice. You can already feel the warm blood seeping through his clothes, wetting your own shirt where he’s leaned against you. You hear the others shouting, worried, wanting to know what’s happened, so you offer them what little information you can. “Not life threatening yet, but his arm is useless.”

     Another shot goes off, the sound ringing through the air. You’re too slow to react and the bullet tears right through Ryan’s chest, flying out of his back and into your stomach. Even as you scream in pain you tighten your arm around the man who has become dead weight against you. You raise your gun and shoot the offending officer right between the eyes, then drag Ryan’s body into a small alcove in the alley. Your instincts take over and you press your hand against the open wound in his chest, tears welling in your eyes as you feel his blood gush against your fingers. “Ryan, Ryan, please,” you shake him gently. You catch your breath and lift your hand, coated in his blood, to your ear, “Ry--Delta One’s hit—we’re both hit, it’s bad. I need to get him out of here.” You take another shot as a cop rounds the corner looking for you, hitting him first in the thigh and then in the head when he falls to the pavement; you have no idea how many bullets you have left, or how many cops are out there.

     You don’t have time to listen to the shouted replies of the others as you pull Ryan’s non-wounded arm over your shoulder, ignoring the burning protest at your center. You fire a few shots at the remaining officers with your free hand, stumbling backwards and moving between buildings as well as you can until you’re completely lost and the sounds of sirens begin to fade as the cops lose interest (typical Los Santos). Once you’re far enough away you stuff your gun into your belt, rip the earpiece out of your ear because you can hardly hear yourself think over the voices of the crew (and you have more important things to focus on right now), and put your hand back over the hole in Ryan’s chest, applying enough pressure to at least slow the blood-flow.

     You lean him against a damp brick wall for a moment and rip off his mask so that he can breathe better. You move to throw it into a nearby dumpster but he growls out a gravelly ‘don’t you dare’ so you roll your eyes and unceremoniously shove it into the back pocket of his pants. “I think you’re too attached,” you mutter under your breath.

     “You have no idea,” he says so quietly that you just barely hear it. The moment of tense silence is broken when he takes a large gulp of fresh air. “(y/n),” his voice is ragged and his breathing is shallow.

     You dread what he's going to say, dread the thought that he might tell you to leave him behind to die on the pavement of some dirty alley. “Shut up,” you immediately reprimand him, before he has a chance to speak again. It’s not the time, you know it’s not the time, but here Ryan is trying to save you  _ again _ and you can’t help but think about what Gavin that last night. “I’m not leaving you anywhere, understand?” you say. “Your legs work just fine, fucker, so use them.” 

     His laugh is labored, "I was just going to tell you that watching you kill all those cops made me hard, but I appreciate the sentiment."

     You stumble on your next step, embarrassment turning the tips of your ears red. Of course that's what he wanted to tell you. You’re relieved when he stops leaning so heavily against you, supporting some of his own weight as the two of you stagger further away from the scene. When you finally find your voice again you use it to whisper a quick, "Excuse me for thinking you'd take the path of chivalry."

     "And here I thought you knew me better than that."

     "Yeah, well, I should've expected as much after you stole all my money during that last job."

     "I left you a cut of it," he says on a cough. "I fancy myself a gentleman for that."

     You can't help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, arguing about something so trivial (something you were so pissed off about in the beginning is somehow now  _ trivial _ to you, when did that happen?) while you're bleeding all over each other. "Alright, Mr. Gentleman, I'll take an IOU for a thank you for saving your ass, then."

     He grins weakly through the pain, “This doesn’t mean you’re getting any of my cut.”

     You have half the mind to smack him but you refrain. “I don’t want any of your money, asshole." At one point in time you would have, you would have demanded it from him as payment for getting him out of there, but now all you want is for him to be safe. For all of them to be safe. "Do you think you can make it a few blocks or do I need to jack a car?”

     “Where are you planning on taking me?”

     “I’ve got a place where we’ll be safe.”

     “I thought your apartment was across town?” he questions, his footsteps lagging in pace, his limbs beginning to feel heavier. 

     You feel a tingling sensation in the back of your neck; of course you're already well aware that Ryan knows where your apartment is, but hearing him say it so casually… it reminds you of before, before Tinkerbell, before the Fakes, before  _ Geoff _ . It reminds you of the nights Ryan would find you, all black face paint, menacing aura, and  **desire** . You swallow thickly because you know that where you're taking him is the last place you own that he’s truly unaware of. "I'm not taking you to my apartment."

     “You know Tinkerbell will have everything you own staked out.”

     A mirthless laugh rolls off your tongue, “Not everything. I won't let him find us, I'm not stupid.”

     He coughs and some blood spills from his lips. “I never said you were.” It's an oddly genuine sentiment that makes you smile despite the situation.

     You heave his arm further over your shoulder, holding his wrist tightly, and wrap your other arm around his waist. “I’m not thinking you’re going to make it the whole way on your feet.”

     “I can make it,” he protests even as he leans against you more heavily again.

     “Shut up,” you repeat more firmly. “Look, there’s a road right there, I’ll find a car we can take. But before we head out there…” You pause, gently moving him until he’s leaned against a wall. When you’re pretty sure he isn’t going to fall to the ground you very quickly pull down your mask and rip the hair-tie from your hair, fluffing it around your shoulders. You pull your sweater over your head, leaving you in just your undershirt, and then carefully strip Ryan’s jacket from his arms before throwing it over your own shoulders. “There,” you nod, pulling him back to his feet. “Now we aren’t as recognizable, at least.”

     “I mean, if the cops are blind, maybe,” Ryan laughs airily. He looks you over and smirks, "You should borrow that jacket more often."

     Giddy from adrenaline and blood loss you grab the collar of his jacket and do a little twirl, watching as the fabric floats around you. "You think so?"

     He grabs you around the shoulders, pulling you to his side. "I do.” You don’t protest when he leans down and presses a chaste kiss against the corner of your mouth. “Now let's get out of here."

     Together the two of you continue slowly stumbling out towards the street--you thank your lucky stars you don’t see any more cop cars. It’s easy enough to find and hot-wire a car and to lay Ryan down in the backseat, and it’s easy enough to smile at anyone you happen to pass by on the street as you head to your workspace; it’s the safest, closest location you can think of despite the fact that you’re going to compromise the one spot you’ve always kept under tight wraps. You’re glad you thought to grab the key before the heist in case of an emergency.

     Once you’re inside you lay Ryan down on the bed and apologize that there’s nothing comfier when he winces. You shuffle around the small space, grabbing the first aid kit and anything else you think you’ll need. “Do you think you can manage to take off your shirt?” you ask.

     “I don’t really know if now is the time for that kind of thing,” Ryan says weakly. “But I won't stop you if you're feeling up for it.”

     Now that you think about it, you've never seen his bare chest before; all of your trysts always ended up with you mostly naked and him fully clothed. You think maybe it's about time to turn the tides. “Just do it,” you press as coolly as possible.

     “But I’ll get blood all over your nice, comfy bed and then I’ll feel bad,” he goes on, pulling gasped breaths of air between his teeth every few words. He sighs when he sees your stern look, then carefully sits up and begins stripping off his shirt (oh fuck, he's  _ hot) _ , noticing your wince as your eyes follow the blood that has stained all of his chest and arm. “Well doc, how long do I have?” he teases in a vain attempt to lighten the mood.

     You're beginning to realize that you haven't heard Ryan joke so much with you ever; you wonder if his injuries are affecting him more than he's letting on. “You’re an ass,” you try to tease back, but the wounds that mar his flesh have your heart beating rapidly with worry. “Try not to speak anymore,” you inform, very quickly tying a tourniquet made from a scrap of fabric around his bicep to cut off the blood-flow to his arm. You then reach over and grab a towel from the supplies you had gathered; you dip it in the bucket of warm water you had prepared and take a seat next to him. “Hold still,” you order, gently beginning to soak up the blood that smears his skin, wiping until you reach the hole in his chest. You dab at the wound lightly, frowning every time he flinches away from your hands. “You’re lucky,” you assess after cleaning up the blood. “It looks like two of the bullets made a clean exit.”

     “How lucky,” comes the sarcastic reply.

     You lift the bottle of alcohol from your supplies--you need to sterilize the wounds and this is all you’ve got right now--and waggle it in Ryan’s face briefly, chuckling weakly at his groan of apprehension. As you struggle through your nerves to pull off the cap a set of fingers suddenly touch your face, pulling your attention back to his eyes. You swallow audibly, setting down the cap and grasping his hand, lacing your fingers through his. “It’s going to hurt,” you warn shortly, as though he didn’t know it already. “I’ve got to do this fast.”

     The liquid hits the skin of his collarbone and rolls into the dip in his chest before it seeps through the bullet-hole. He hisses and leans forward, pressing his forehead against your shoulder and mouthing at your skin to distract himself.

     You give his hand a reassuring squeeze before you gently push him away so that he’s lying back on the bed once more. You lift the needle and thread from the supplies, catching eyes with him as you do so. You only have limited knowledge on how to stitch a wound properly, but if you don’t give it a shot he’s just going to keep bleeding. “Do you want some kind of medicine before I do this?”

     Ryan shakes his head, “Get it over with.”

     You pull your hand from his and place it on his chest, leaning close as you begin carefully threading the needle through his skin, doing the best you can to patch the wound, at least temporarily. When you finish with the stitches you cut a thick square of gauze and place it over your handiwork, taping it there tightly. You stitch up the hole in his arm and chest, then you have him turn around and you do the same with the exit-wounds.

     “Wait,” he stops you as you move to work on his shoulder. “You first.”

     “Me?” you question.

     “Here,” he says, pointing a finger towards the blood stain that has coated your waist. “You look pale.”

     You swat his hands away, “Let me finish you up, I’m just ignoring it right now. If you make me think about it it’ll start to hurt more.”

     “It’ll start to hurt more once your adrenaline wears off,” he argues.

     You place your palm on his good shoulder and force him to lay back. “Listen here, I’m the doctor right now, okay?” You turn to grab a set of tweezers because the bullet didn’t exist his shoulder and you need to take it out, but as you turn back to him you move a little too quickly. Your head starts to spin, small spots of black temporarily creating holes in your vision; Ryan catches you with his good arm as you sway and fall forward. When your vision finally comes back you find yourself with your face pressed against his chest, your hands clutching his bare shoulders. You try to sit back but his arm is tight around you and when you look up at him his eyes are positively smoldering--and you were really hoping you wouldn't have to deal with his rapidly changing moods during the heist, too. “Ryan,” you call to him in an attempt to corral whatever that fire in his eyes means. 

     He cards his fingers through your hair, grips the roots, and tilts your head back until he can look at you more fully. He moves his other hand over the swell of your breast and down your waist until it’s resting over your bullet wound, still seeping warm blood; you gasp when you feel the heel of his palm press against it and sparks of pain alight your nerves. “As fun as it was to watch, it’s unfortunate you killed the cop who did this,” he speaks lowly, curling his fingers around your ribcage and pressing his palm in a little harder. “I would have torn him apart for you had you let me.” 

     The image of goon one in a bloody pile flashes through your memory. The idea that Ryan might to do that to someone again, for just a single bullet, makes you hot and bothered.

     “I told you before that I’m the only one who gets to hurt you. Though, I suppose, it's better that it went through me first.” His eyes are bright, crazed. “Our blood,” he mutters, lifting his hand and licking some of the blood from his palm. He kisses you then, as if you haven’t both been shot, nips at your lip and slips his tongue between your teeth when you gasp.

     A full-body shiver works it's way from your fingers to your toes.  _ Our blood _ . A wound that you both share, scars that will never fade--a permanent reminder of Ryan etched into your skin, and you into his. You taste copper in his mouth and groan, angling your head and kissing him back. 

     His hands find your thighs and drag you forward until you’re straddling his lap. He grips your hips tight, the way he always does, and the shock of thrill and arousal you feel when he forces his hips up against yours is staggering. “We can’t,” you gasp, turning your face away. But you  _ want _ to, and your body tells him as much when you involuntarily roll your hips down against his.

     You're both in dire need of professional medical attention, covered in blood and at risk of passing out at any moment. You know this, but you can't seem to stop. The danger of the situation, the instability of it all--it's exactly what Geoff was never able to provide you with, the missing piece of your fucked up puzzle. 

     Ryan trails his kisses across your cheek and jaw down to your neck where he sucks red marks into the skin below your ear and along your jugular vein. “We can,” he says, tone a little darker, gripping your hips a little tighter. He nips at your neck and then he’s kissing you again and it’s suddenly more urgent, more passionate. “You look so pretty like this,” he whispers, digging his thumb against your bullet wound.

     You hiss a sharp inhale, feeling light-headed, knowing that you need to stop your own bleeding and his before it's too late, but his grip is surprisingly strong for someone who has just been shot three times and you can’t fight it. “We can’t,” you try again, desperately holding onto what remains of your reasoning. 

     He frowns, eyes dark, and pushes the tip of his thumb into the hole in your stomach. When you cry out and try to squirm away he shushes you with another kiss and pulse of his hips.

     You feel yourself losing the battle, feel your sanity and inhibition begin to slip away as the Vagabond cruelly forces more blood from the gunshot wound. You grab at his wrist, intent on pulling his hand away from you, but he snatches your fingers and drags them up to his face before you get the chance. 

     He presses surprisingly soft kisses to each of your knuckles before reaching your ring finger, where the massive diamond ring you had been trying on at the jewelry store still sits snugly around your digit. “Did Gavin pick this one out?” he asks you. “It doesn’t suit you.”

     It’s an 18 karat rose gold ring with a massive, pear-cut diamond at the center that is surrounded by more diamonds than you can count. It’s worth easily fifteen-thousand dollars, probably more. And Ryan is absolutely right, it doesn’t suit you at all.

     “I’m sure I could find you a better one, if you’d like,” he offers, eyes twinkling as he slips his lips around your finger and pulls the ring off with his teeth. He spits it across the room like it’s garbage and nips playfully at the palm of your hand.

     “ _ Ryan _ ,” you gasp, pain blooming into pleasure that makes your head spin (or maybe it’s the fact that he’s literally offering to buy you a ring, you’re not really sure). "Fuck." 

     He growls approvingly at the sound of his name and his fingers go to work trying to unbutton your pants. He drags the zipper down slowly, as if waiting for you to protest again. 

     You don't. 

     You lift your hips for him when he drags your pants down your legs, exposing your bare skin for his eyes to admire. You know that what you're doing is wrong but you don't feel like fighting your desires anymore, not when he's looking up at you with an expression like the one he's wearing; he looks like he wants to tear you apart. You hope he does. 

     You scoot yourself backwards until you can get your fingers onto his belt buckle. He allows you to flip his belt open, but when your fingers go to work on the button of his jeans he lurches forward and knocks you flat onto your back. His wide shoulders are between your legs, large hands on your thighs to hold them apart, and his teeth are biting deep into your inner thigh before you have time to register that you're suddenly looking at the ceiling.

     “You’re mine,” he says against your skin, sucking another mark into your flesh beside the bite. "Geoff will never be able to give you what I can." He bites your other thigh then and your back arches involuntarily as he presses two fingers against your clit through the fabric of your panties. “Tell me,” he says, pressing a kiss to your hip, fingers twisting in brutal, tight circles against you and drawing moans and whimpers from between your lips. “ _ Tell me _ ,” he demands again.

     "Geoff…" you sigh, "he can't--"

     You're apparently not fast enough for Ryan because in the next moment he's tearing your panties apart with his hands and teeth. His breath ghosts across your bare flesh and you shudder. "He can't what?" he asks impatiently, his finger finding your clit again, this time without the fabric barrier separating your skin.

     "He can't give me what you can," you breathe on an exhale. You wish it was a lie, you wish the circumstances were different, you wish--

     Your mind goes blank as Ryan leans forward and buries his tongue into you. You curl against him, the pleasure overwhelming, your fingers slipping into his long, blonde hair and pulling at the roots. You feel the rumble of his groan against you and you gasp his name. 

     "You're  _ beautiful _ like this," Ryan says reverently, sucking your clit between his teeth.

     "Ryan," you nearly sob. Your head is starting to feel foggy and it’s getting difficult to breathe because each time you try to draw in air sharp pain spreads from your stomach into your chest. "I can't-- _ please _ \--"

     His mouth slows against you and your back hits the mattress as you fall out of your arch. "What do you want, (y/n)?" he asks, releasing your legs from his grip and kissing a path from your stomach to your throat.

     You lift your legs and squeeze your thighs around his waist. "I want  _ you _ ." It’s the most honest you’ve been with yourself, with  _ anyone _ , in a long time. 

     He grins down at you, "What do we do when we want something?"

     Your vision is beginning to blur around the edges. "I don't--"

     He leans in and speaks directly against your mouth, "We take it, don't we?" He helps you, gripping your hips and rolling until you’re seated on top of him once more. “If you want it, you need to take it for yourself.”

     You lean forward, planting your hands on either side of his head and grinding down against him, reveling in the white-hot pleasure that builds rapidly in your stomach. It’s fast then, hands tearing and pulling at what blood-stained clothing remains between the two of you until you’re both naked as the day you were born. It’s all desperate motions, trying to get what you need from each other before unconsciousness drags you under. 

     Your skin pulses around the bullet wound that’s still seeping fresh blood and you know you should stop, that what you’re doing is dangerous for both of you and unfair to the rest of the crew--they don’t even know where you are or if you’re okay--but his skin feels too good, too inviting against yours. The way his fingers curve around your shoulder and slide down your back, pressing into bruises and scrapes, makes you shiver and arch into his touch. The hot, slick slide of his mouth against your throat as he licks and bites and sucks dark colors into your skin is sinful, especially as he strategically places them in locations he knows will be hard to cover later. You don’t think too much of it,  _ can’t _ think too much of it around the waves of arousal fueling your movements.

     You use what remaining strength you have to gather his wrists into your hands, pinning his arms above his head with all the weight of your body; you’re sure he could easily break your hold if he wanted to but when you look down at him, at the crimson building in his cheeks and the raw craving in his eyes, you know that he won’t. You lower your free hand to the expanse of his chest, keeping your eyes on his and watching with fascination as his pupils blow wide, nearly swallowing up the entirety of his blue irises. Goddamn he looks good like this--disheveled and panting and in pain. You drag your nails down his chest and stomach, teasing your fingers along the lines of his hips. “Do you want me to turn you into my personal fuck toy?” you ask lowly. His hips surge beneath you at your filthy words, a ragged groan escaping his throat. You can’t help but chuckle, “Sounds like you’d like that.” 

     “(y/n).” You recognize the incredibly low tone of warning, one that you’ve heard many times in the past and that always,  _ always _ promises an incredible fuck.

     “I love it when you sound like that,” you sigh, leaning into him and biting down hard on his collarbone. You pay him back for the litany of bruises he left on you, biting him on his chest and shoulders and neck hard enough to draw blood; when you sit up and look down at him he looks like a fucking painting on a canvas--his hair splayed out around him like a halo, his eyes brighter than ever, his skin marred with blood and punctures in the shape of your teeth. The sight of it sparks something in your stomach, something you’ve never experienced before. You lick a path from the center of his chest to his chin, catching his blood on your tongue. “I love it when you look like this for  _ me _ .” 

     Possessive. It’s the only word you have to describe what you’re feeling. Instead of dwelling on it (or the fact that your words caused Ryan’s dick to pulse against your thigh) you decide to take pity on both him and yourself, lifting your hips, lining him up, and sliding down onto him in one smooth motion. Your mouth drops open, eyes pinched shut as he fills you up so perfectly. It’s been  _ so _ long, your body no longer used to the shape of his cock, but the sting of the stretch is a welcome burn. 

     Ryan moans deeply, his hands clenching into fists above his head, his hips bucking upwards in an attempt to slide himself further into you. When you grind down against him, your hips flush with his, his mouth goes slack and his breathing becomes even more ragged. He watches you move against him, rolling and lifting your hips, your eyes closed in concentration as you seek your release; you’re using him, not thinking about anything but your own pleasure, and he feels his dick get that much harder. His hands ache to touch you, to grab your hips, to rub his calloused fingers across your thighs and waist and breasts, but he keeps them above his head. Instead he pushes his hips up sharply as you drop yourself down onto his length, the choked moan that leaves your mouth like music to his ears.

     “Ah--” your voice cracks, “ _ Ryan _ .” 

     “Say it again,” he demands, thrusting up against you harder. “ _ Scream it,  _ kitten _. _ ” 

     “I--I can’t--”

     He rips his arms away from your hold as he sits up with you in his lap, his large hands digging bruises into your hips as he grabs them and forces them to move faster, harder. “You can do anything when you’re with me,” he says, nipping at your jawline. The patchwork stitches you gave him are beginning to rip open with the force of his movements, the bullet still lodged somewhere in his shoulder creating excruciating pain in his arm, but he doesn’t stop. “I want to hear you scream my name.” His hand slips between your bodies and ruthlessly digs against your swollen bundle of nerves.

     Two more thrusts and the frayed knot in your stomach shreds to pieces; you scream his name for the world to hear as you cum harder than you ever have. Your grip on his shoulders slackens as you crest the hill of pleasure and, when you open your eyes, the splotches in your vision have become larger. “Ryan,” you mumble, tired and sated and--holy fuck, the world is spinning. 

     Ryan tips forward suddenly and you land hard on your back, his weight on top of you too much, too heavy, too painful, but you can’t do anything to stop him as his thrusts become erratic. You beg for him to stop as overstimulation and  **pain** start to overwhelm you, tears forming in the corners of your eyes and falling down your cheeks. “(y/n),” he breathes against your neck. He repeats your name again and again until his body tenses against yours.

     You gasp a painful breath as he spills inside of you, warmth spreading in your stomach and down your thighs. It’s new and intimate and  _ addicting _ and you whine when he finally slips out of you and the rest of his body weight collapses down on top you. You try to focus your eyes on him but your vision and hearing are both fading fast. Instead you reach up and place your hand on his cheek, stroking the beads of sweat and blood away from his skin.

     He turns his head to kiss your palm and your heart jumps up into your throat. “You’re my girl, aren’t you?” he asks, something menacing hidden in his tone that you don’t catch.

     You don’t know if Ryan has been genuine with you even once since you met him. You don’t know why you never moved apartments after the Vagabond found out where you lived, or why you would let him fuck you up against walls without putting up a fight. You don’t know if he knew you were seeing Geoff the night he fucked you against your counter, or why he spent that night patching you up, making sure that you would be taken care of after you woke up. 

     You don’t know why he’s so passionate about  _ ruining  _ everyone that’s ever done you harm, or why he was willing to show his face for you when it’s so extremely out of character for him. You don’t know why he spoke to sweetly to you in the alleyway at the bar, or why the sound of his voice keeps making your heart lurch traitorously.

     You don’t really know anything about him.

     But you  _ know _ that you mean it when you reply: “I always have been.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steamy. I hope everyone enjoys! Next chapter will be dramatic and angst-filled c;


	4. Choice

     You wake up in a familiar, bright, white room--the déjà vu you feel is astounding, the only difference being that there’s not a tube down your throat and you’re aware enough of your location that you’re not panicking at all (at least, not about where you are). You have no recollection of how you got here or how anyone even found your workspace in the first place, but it’s not difficult to assume that Ryan called someone after you passed out. You raise a hand to your stomach and hiss when your hand touches a thick pad of gauze taped to your skin. “Fuck,” you mutter.

     “Yeah, I’ll say.”

     You turn your head to find Geoff sitting in a chair beside your bed, leaned back with his tattooed arms crossed over his chest; it looks oddly closed off and unfriendly for someone as happy and exuberant as Geoff usually is. Your gut reaction is to smile at him--because you're relieved that he's unharmed, and that you're  _ alive _ \--but you don’t because your gaze finally wanders to his face and he looks absolutely pissed. He doesn’t say anything, even when your expression noticeably drops. You try to fill in the blanks in your mind but no matter how hard you try you can’t come up with anything, which means not only did you fuck up the mission but it’s also highly probable that Geoff found you with Ryan, alone and in who-the-fuck-knows what kind of position. You really hope that Ryan at least redressed you, and preferably himself as well. “Um, did everyone else make it out safe?” you ask quietly.

     Geoff’s eyebrows draw further down and deepen the lines in his face. “You would know that if you had your com, wouldn’t you? Please tell me why in the hell you thought it was a good idea to take it out?” His fists tighten in his lap and he doesn’t let you speak when you try. “What the dicks were you thinking, cutting off all communication with us?!” He takes a breath, as if trying to calm himself down. “Do you know how fucked up it is to tell us you’ve been shot and then just, just disappear?”

     “Geoff, I--”

     “Ryan could have been dead.” He lowers his head so you can’t see his eyes. “ _ You _ could have been dead. Why didn’t you just tell us what was going on?” His voice turns from furious energy to a pathetic whisper and you feel your heart shattering when it quivers as if he’s on the verge of tears--frustrated or otherwise.

     “I’m sorry,” you croak. “I know it was stupid, I just, Ryan was bleeding so much and I panicked and I couldn’t think with everyone shouting.” It’s not good enough, you know it’s not, you don’t think anything you can say to him will be good enough. “I really don’t know what to say, Geoff. I’ve only ever worked alone and I’ve never had everything crumble around me like that; my first priority became making sure Ryan was okay. I passed out before I could--”

     His head snaps up, an overwhelming amount of anger (hurt,  _ betrayal _ ) burning like wildfire behind his eyes. “Before you could what?” his voice cracks on the last word. “Because it sure seems like you had plenty of time to fuck around.” When you frown he doesn’t hesitate to stoop forward and pull the edge of the sheet away from your lap.

     You feel a surprising lack of shame when you see the angry purple and red marks that peek out from between your inner thighs. You know that your neck--and Ryan’s for that matter--can’t possibly look any better. Even with the evidence damning you, you can still taste the lie on the tip of your tongue. Geoff trusts you, you know he does, you know you could get him to believe a made up story just like he did to you.

     He sighs loudly and lowers his head to cradle his face in his hands.“How long are you assholes going to keep playing me like this?”

     The hurt that’s growing increasingly obvious in his tone makes you falter. Sometimes he's so convincing; you want so badly to believe in him and the relationship you built, but you won't be able to with the lingering doubt in the back of your mind.

     “What really happened when you went to talk with him the other day?” he asks quietly. “When you told me that you’d worked things out and that everything was peachy-fuckin’-keen?”

     You frown at the memory and subconsciously raise your hand to touch your throat where Ryan had bit you that day. You don’t know what to say, how to explain yourself in a way that won't reveal the rest of what you and Ryan have done since then--assuming Geoff doesn't know already.

     “Do you remember much about the club the other night?” he asks, sparing you the embarrassment of stumbling through a half-assed story about why you lied to him that day. “You were drunk and dancing with strangers all night, until Ryan approached you.”

     The end of that night is honestly a blur, you don’t even really remember getting to bed. Of course, you remember dancing with Ryan and scraping the shit out of your knees in the alleyway, but Geoff doesn't know that and you certainly don’t have any idea why he would bring it up, so you shake your head.

     “You looked so fucking  _ happy _ ," he doesn't sound angry when he says it, even when his voice cracks on the final word. "I can't remember the last time you smiled like that."

     You feel a wave of nervousness wash over you. You had been so drunk that night that you hadn't really paid attention to anything else as soon as you had Ryan in your grasp. Exactly how much did Geoff see? "I was having fun," you say vaguely. "People tend to smile when they have fun."

     "It was a different smile and you know it, don't try to fuckin' hide something from me that I already know about. I may be old as dicks, but I'm not naïve."

     You feel the words thick in your mouth like molasses.  _ Why don't you tell me about the secret you've been hiding all this time? _ You want to throw it in his face like it's going to win you the argument, but you know it won't be that simple. You know what it means for your relationship with Geoff.

     “I know what those doe eyes mean," he says bitterly. "I just wish you motherfuckers would tell it to me straight instead of leaving me with some half-assed hope." He pins you with a glossy-eyed look and your breath catches in your throat at the sight of the unshed tears. "I may not have been the best to you, but I deserve honestly, at least." 

     You have a sudden urge to shout at him, to scream at him that he's been  _ better _ than the best to you, that he's done  _ everything _ for you, that your crumbling relationship is  **not** his fault.

     Before you have a chance to say anything he drops a bomb you aren't expecting. "Do you think he’s in love with you?” He sounds so fucking broken that tears are spilling down your cheeks and neck, sliding into the hollow of your throat and collarbones, before you realize you’ve started crying.

     You can still vividly remember Gavin’s words, remember the way he cooed them so sweetly, remember the excited lilt to his voice when he told you--you remember Ryan walking back into the room and you remember nearly staring a hole into his face as you tried to see whatever it was that Gavin apparently saw.

     You think you may have seen bits of that truth in his jokes at the bar, his fingers tender against your scalp the next morning, and after he stopped you from patching his gunshot wounds in order to make sure you were okay first (despite the fact that the Vagabond ended up nearly letting you bleed out).

     You just wish it wasn't  _ Geoff _ . You wish that the choice was more simple, that nobody would be getting hurt at all--but the fact that it's the sweetest man you've ever known makes it so much worse. He lied to you, yes, and you wish that was enough of an excuse to  _ hurt _ him but it isn't. You know somewhere in the back of your mind that you would have somehow ended up here anyway, no matter how the story played out. He may have been winning the battle for a long time, but the second Geoff invited Ryan into your apartment that night, he lost the war.

     But you _ owe  _ Geoff the truth, you can do at least that. End the cycle of lies. You tip your chin up and meet his eyes because your decision is made and your mind can't be changed--you're going to face him with dignity and respect because he  _ deserves _ that from you. “I do," you say softly. "And I think you do too."

     Geoff’s posture grows impossibly rigid, his muscles as taut as a string about to snap. “Did he tell you?” he asks. His mood changes on a dime, any softness in his gaze evaporating when he realizes which way the conversation is heading. “Yesterday, while we were all shitting our pants with worry? While we thought you assholes could have been dead? Did he get down on one knee and fucking propose while we scoured the city for you fuckers?” 

_      I’m sure I could find you a better one, if you’d like. _

     It wasn’t technically a proposal, but Geoff’s accusation is so on the money that it makes you gasp regardless. You flounder for something to say, something to calm him down, but you don’t have an excuse. 

     You did what you did because you wanted to, nothing more and nothing less.

     Geoff’s knuckles are white, tattoos stretched out across pronounced tendons that run along the length of his fingers. "He tells you he loves you and that's it? You just believe him?" he whispers. He stands so suddenly that you jolt in surprise.

     “Geoff?” you call his name timidly. You haven’t explained anything, you’re still not sure how you’re going to, but you know you need to say something because you risk losing him forever if you don’t. It may already be too late and you can’t blame him. “I’m sorry--”

     “Don’t,” he raises his hand to stop you. He won’t even meet your eyes. When you try speaking again he becomes visibly exasperated. “Stop, just, just shut the fuck up for a minute, okay?! I can’t--I just--I can’t listen to this shit right now.” Another quaking breath leaves him.

     You reach for him, trailing gentle fingers across his forearm down to his fingers in a gesture that’s so familiar that it makes your chest ache, but this time it’s Geoff who rips his hand away from you before you can reach it.

     He doesn’t even offer you another glance before he briskly leaves the room.

     You can’t pinpoint most of the number of emotions that you’re feeling--because there are too many or because you suddenly feel numb as the door swings shut you’re unsure. You’ve fucked up over and over and over again, and Geoff has given you chance after chance to make things right; maybe placing you on a team with Ryan was a test afterall, a test that you just failed horribly.

     A test that you know you would fail again and again given the choice.

     Ryan  _ didn't _ tell you he loves you. He doesn't need to for you to know, or for Geoff to know, or for anyone else to know. 

     Geoff was right to stop you before you blurted that you loved him that day, because you don’t; you can’t possibly love him and continue to hurt him as many times as you have. You can’t possibly love him and then sleep with Ryan the first (and second) chance you get. Tears gather in your eyes and blur your vision. 

     You don’t love Geoff Ramsey, you only  _ wanted _ to. 

     You still want to, but it’s too late now. 

     You sit in silence for a long time, thinking about everything you’ve done wrong, and then you reach to the small table next to you with shaking fingers, lift your phone, and dial Jack’s number.

 

     You’re not sure if it’s because you sobbed hysterically into the phone the second Jack answered but she throws open the door to the room and is sitting beside you in a matter of minutes. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask any questions, simply huddles you into her arms and hugs you as close as she can while you cry. She smooths her hands along your hair and down your back and mutters gentle words of reassurance until your breathing evens out. “Tell me what’s wrong,” she says softly.

     You lean away from her and roughly wipe the tears and snot away from your face with your arm. You explain everything to her through bouts of crying and sniffling, starting from when you first met Ryan. You tell her how you hated him, hated his guts, hated the whole Fake AH Crew for being such a pain in the ass, and how the first time you slept with him was on a car after a job-gone-wrong. You tell her how after that first time it became somewhat of a routine that would happen nearly every time the Fakes interrupted one of your jobs (or the few times you interrupted theirs), and how it was always a rough fuck that never meant anything--just a moment of self-indulgence after the moments of adrenaline and fear, just one rush after another. You tell her that meeting Geoff was unplanned, that you had been skeptical of him that night in the bar but that after the first date you knew there was something about him that called out to you. You tell her about sleeping with Ryan again and the guilt you felt and the way that he marked your body so ruthlessly after your date that night, and you tell her about everything in-between--how your feelings for Geoff kept growing and how with every step you took further into your unnamed relationship with him the more possessive Ryan got, and the more possessive Ryan got, the more attracted to him you became.

     You tell her about the problems with your sex life, your need for something much less gentle than Geoff’s touches, a need that you’ve always had that only Ryan has ever been able to fill. You tell her probably more than she needs to know but you can’t seem to stop--everything, every detail, pours unfiltered out of your mouth until you’ve bared everything to her. “I’m so confused,” you mutter helplessly. Your eyes are red and puffy and your nose is so blocked up that you can hardly breathe out of it; you’re sure that you look like a disaster and you find yourself glad that Jack is so understanding. “I never meant for things to go this far with Ryan, and I--I never meant to hurt Geoff.”

     “Well, first of all,” she says, taking your hand and giving your fingers a squeeze, “you’re an absolute idiot for removing your com. Don’t ever do anything that stupid ever again.”

     “I know--”

     “Ah,” she holds up her other hand to shush you. “I’m serious. Never again or else I’ll find you and I’ll kick your ass. Now listen.” She leans forward and lowers her voice, keeping her eyes fixed on yours. “I don’t trust Ryan as far as I can throw him. He’s our friend and we need him, but the guy is fucking crazy. Geoff and Ray have both had moments with him where he went completely batshit and they thought he was going to kill them just to gain some extra cash.”

     You think about Ryan’s gentle moments: when he put you in bed and cleaned up your house, when he risked his identity being discovered just to calm you down, even just yesterday when he joked with you to lighten the mood and wanted to help you first when he noticed you were pale. You also remember the cold eyes, the feeling of his hand around your throat, the moments when he let his calm façade slip around you--you remember fearing he might kill you. You’re shaken to realize that none of it bothers you. You trust that he won't hurt you; you trust  _ him _ .

     “He acts different around you though,” Jack continues thoughtfully. “I don’t know why, but I don’t know if it’s possible that it’s love.”

     “Why not?” You’re genuinely curious.

     “Because Ryan has only ever loved one thing.”

     “Murder,” you say confidently, with a shrug that seems to surprise Jack. “I may not know Ryan, but I know the Vagabond,” you explain. “He’s hurt me, threatened me… he’s  _ terrified _ me, killed in front of me. But he’s also killed  **for** me, has he ever done that for anyone else?”

     Jack contemplates it, her eyebrows drawing into a scowl. “No,” she answers after some time thinking about it. “He’s only ever killed when he felt like it, because he felt like it.” 

     "Do you know why he skinned the man who tortured me alive?" you ask.

     Jack shakes her head, looking confused about where you're headed with this story.

     You remember what goon one said that day as if it had happened yesterday. You take a deep breath and repeat one of the worst sentences you’ve ever had the displeasure of hearing. “ _ I know you’ve fucked her but have you ever really gotten her to scream? It’s pretty, I think it’ll really get your rocks off _ . That’s what he said.”

     Jack looks horrified, “(y/n), I’m so sorry--”

     “It’s in the past,” you wave it off as though the nightmares, the sound of his voice, don’t still haunt you. “Ryan was just going to shoot him and walk away, but after he said  _ that _ , that’s when he flayed him.”

     Jack seems to mull over what she wants to say next, and you can only imagine it’s because her answer is something you don’t want to hear. “Ryan is...possessive,” she says finally. “He always has been, even over the most insignificant things.” 

     You think about sitting on Ryan's hips in your workspace, about the pretty crimson splotches you had created on him. You remember feeling a strange sense of pride, a sense of domination--anger festers in your gut when you think about someone else enjoying that sight. "I'd like to think I'm not insignificant," you say with contempt. "And  _ I'm _ possessive, too. Everyone is in this line of work."

     "You're right." She chews on her lip for a moment. “And you're in no way insignificant, all I'm trying to say is that I’m sure when Ryan learned you had a date he wasn’t happy, and he was probably pissed when he found out it was Geoff.”

     “Why?”

     “Well he can't exactly kill Geoff.”

     You’re becoming more agitated by the second. Is she implying that he would have killed anyone else who took interest in you, just because he could? Just because they were fooling around with you when he wasn’t? Is it such a bad thing if that were true? You have a feeling Jack wouldn't be too keen on anyone trying to steal Caiti away from her either. Instead of open an entirely new can of worms with that line of questioning you just huff, “Well according to you he's had no problem threatening Geoff in the past--"

     “ _ But _ ,” she stresses, sensing your anger and hoping to quickly quell it. “I can’t think of a single heist, or ever really, that Ryan has hunted someone down who had hurt one of us. He cares about us, in his own messed up way, but killing has always been a sport to him rather than a vengeance thing. The fact that he’d go to those lengths for you might mean something, I just don’t know what.”

     You sigh, knowing you shouldn’t take your frustration out on Jack; she’s just trying to understand the situation and give you what information she can. “He put medicine next to my bed and he bandaged my wounds.” You cradle your head in your hands. “He’s always been an ass but he’s had these--these moments… He told me he’d get me a  _ ring _ , for chrissake, Jack. If none of that meant anything then, then, what? He’s doing all this because--because--?”

     “Do you want it to mean something?” she asks suddenly.

_      Yes _ . Your first thought comes to you so fast that it catches you off guard. It must be true though, if your subconscious is supplying answers that quickly. You do want it to mean something. You want it to mean  _ everything _ .

     Your silence must speak for itself because she's talking again before you can think of a good way to answer. "(y/n), there's something else I should mention about yesterday." Her cheeks tint pink with what you have to assume is embarrassment, an expression you've never seen on her before. "After you took Ryan to your safehouse--"

     Jack’s phone rings suddenly and she frowns when she reads the display. She answers the call and then her frown deepens; you can vaguely hear shouting on the other end of the call but you can’t make out any words. “Jesus Christ,” she mutters. “I’ll be right there. Make sure they don’t do anything fucking stupid.” She stands and pockets her phone, then leans forwards to carefully remove your IV.

     “Is everything okay?” you ask, wincing a little as the needle is pulled out. You have no idea what the phone call is about but it isn’t good if Jack’s reaction (or the fact that she’s very suddenly decided to cut you off from your medicine) is anything to go by.

     She grabs a bandage from a nearby countertop and places it over your arm, then helps you to your feet. “You need to come with me.”

 

     You can’t fucking be seeing this, you  _ can’t _ , the thought that it’s actually happening is making your head spin. Jack had dragged you out of the infirmary while refusing to tell you what the hell was so pressing that it needed your immediate attention--you felt a little nauseous when she approached Ryan’s door but  _ this? _ You have no idea what you were expecting.

     Geoff is on the ground, lip torn and bloody, a bruise already darkening the skin under his eye. Ryan is standing above him, dangerously close, his eyes wide and positively feral; the only thing stopping him from descending upon Geoff further is Michael, Gavin, and Ray (who honestly look like they’re struggling to hold him back despite it being three to one). The thought that he’s strong enough to take on three full-grown men on his own (combined with the bulge of his biceps that look absolutely divine pressing against the sleeves of his dark v-neck) has you practically drooling. You shake the thoughts out of your head and focus on the matter at hand.

     “Son of a bitch,” Jack curses, skirting by you to kneel next to Geoff. “I told you to make sure they didn’t do anything stupid.”

     “Hey, this ain’t exactly easy,” Michael complains.

     “Yeah,” Gavin agrees. “Ryan’s like a bloody beluga.”

     “What the fu--are you trying to say he’s heavy?” Ray looks bewildered. “I’d say he’s more like a fucking tank.” As if to emphasize his point he pulls harder on Ryan’s arms, his sinewy muscles straining against his skin, and doesn’t move the man an inch.

     “What the hell happened?” Jack asks, diverting her attention away from Geoff who continues to mutter things like ‘ _ I’m fine’ _ and  _ ‘I can handle myself  _ ’ under his breath.

     “We don’t know,” Gavin answers. “We heard shouting and got here just in time to see this bloke sock Geoff right in the bloody face.”

     “I’ll tell you what happened,” Geoff speaks up. His words are slurred and his eyes are hazy and unfocused. “That guy is a fuckin’ asshole that’s what happened.”

     The nonchalance is staggering given the situation, but then Jack’s words-- _ he’s possessive, even over the most insignificant things _ \--ring through your mind and you start to wonder if this kind of thing is a common occurrence around here. You force your legs to work, to move forward, and you kneel down beside Geoff along with Jack (you ignore the feeling of Ryan’s gaze boring into the back of your skull when you do). “Are you okay?” you ask softly, reaching forward to wipe the blood from his chin. You’re concerned by his drunken stupor moreso than the punch he had taken--it couldn’t have been much more than an hour since you last saw him and he seems trashed. You think about how much booze he must have slammed down the second he left the infirmary and it makes your insides twist.

     He slaps your hand away animatedly. “There she is,” he mumbles, noisily slurping the blood from his lip. “Why don’t you go check on  _ him? _ ” he gestures to Ryan, or at least somewhere near Ryan, “ _ First priority _ and all.”

     You feel your blood run cold. You sit back on your heels and glare down at the drunken man--you know that you hurt him, but he could have at least talked with you about it before making a fool out of himself  _ and _ you in front of the entire crew. “Fine,” you spit venomously. 

     “Don’t be such a dick,” Jack chastises. “She’s just trying to make sure you’re alright.

     “Sure, take her side.”

     You turn to Ryan, motioning for the lads to release him; at first they look apprehensive but when Ryan visibly relaxes they finally let him go. “Are  _ you _ okay?” you ask him pointedly.

     “Of course,” he answers, turning his head from side to side to show you that he doesn’t have a scratch on him--at least, none that you didn’t cause yourself yesterday. His warm palm cups your cheek, "How are you feeling?"

     "Alive." The double-meaning behind your words must be evident to him because the corner of his mouth pulls into a small smirk.

     “You two are just  _ so _ precious,” Geoff snorts.

     “Would you shut up?!” Jack slaps him in the arm. “You’re acting like a child.”

     “Just let him continue to bury himself, Jack,” Ryan says smugly. “I’m starting to think he won’t need my help after all.”

     Geoff immediately struggles to rise to his feet and then sways closer to Ryan, pushing you out of the way and getting right into his face. “You’re a real fuckin’ piece of work, y’know that, bud?” he drawls, jabbing a finger into Ryan’s shoulder. “I didn--I didn’t wanna get involved in this but apparently it’s easy to lie to me or somethin’ so here I am.”

     “Has anyone really lied to you, Geoff? (y/n) and I seem to be getting along just fine, if that’s what you’re worried about. You’re the one that sent her to my room, after all,” Ryan says cheekily. You have no idea how everyone in the crew seems to know exactly what’s going through the others’ heads--you suppose it comes with knowing each other for such a long time. “If you’re unhappy with the outcome of your  _ own _ idea, I have a solution that is really quite simple,” comes the calmly worded reply. “All you need to do is stay away from (y/n).”

     Anxiety flares in your body--is he really about to do this in front of everyone? Although, it’s not like what they’re fighting about is much of a secret to anyone; that knowledge alone is enough to make heat rush to your cheeks.

     “No  _ you _ need to stay away from her!” Geoff fires right back, his voice loud and strained.

     Ryan makes a sound that’s damn close to a growl and his hands clench into threatening fists at his sides. The lads look poised to strike again if they need to, and you have half the mind to reach forward and place a hand on Ryan’s arm but you have a feeling it will only make things worse. “That’s not how this works,” he says darkly. “The only rule we’ve ever had around here is that we don’t steal from each other, isn’t that right?”

     You barely have time to jump out of the way as Geoff swings and lands a surprisingly solid punch against Ryan’s cheek. “She isn’t some  _ object _ that can be stolen!” he shouts.

     You share the sentiment, and you’re happy to see Geoff defending you the way he is despite what happened. And yet, a dark, minuscule piece of you is delighted to see Ryan fight for you upfront and tell Geoff to his face how he feels instead of only telling you.

     “We met at the bar, I asked her out!” the tattooed man continues. “You weren’t ever supposed to be involved! Do you even know anything about her?! Do you know what kind of shampoo she uses, or what she likes for breakfast in the morning?! Do you know the little noises that she makes when she’s sleeping?! Do you even  _ want  _ to know, or would you rather fuck with her until you’re tired of her and then throw her out and find someone new?!”

     You blush bright at the intimacy of the statements, at the knowledge that yes, Geoff knows all of that about you; but the implication that Ryan would use you until he had his fill doesn’t sit right with you. The facts that Geoff knows are all surface level--despite how sweet it is that he remembers, someone who you've only known for a week could easily learn all of that with one sweep around your apartment (especially someone with the trained eye of a thief).

     "Vanilla and eucalyptus," Ryan says after a long silence.

     "What the fuck are you talking about?"

     "Vanilla and eucalyptus," he repeats. "Are you telling me you don't recognize her favorite soap scents?" Everyone is more than a little surprised. "Would you recognize her favorite song if it started playing? What about her favorite style of handgun, or the fabric she uses for her masks?"

     Geoff seems to be floundering, his mouth opening and shutting a few times while his alcohol-hazed brain tries to come up with a good response--to come up with a good excuse for why Ryan would know all those things.

     "You always seem to forget whose known her the longest. You met a girl in a bar and she's all you've ever known. She hasn't shown you the darkest parts of herself because she's  _ afraid _ to, because you won't understand."

     "What the hell makes you think I wouldn't understand? That  _ any _ of us wouldn't understand? Why do you suddenly think you fuckin' know her so well?"

     Ryan squares his shoulders, stands a little straighter, keeps his eyes locked on Geoff's. "Because I felt the same way once, the only difference is that I eventually stopped caring."

     It's a surprisingly personal admission, one you'd love to dig into deeper later when you don't feel like you're about to pass out. Ryan hit the nail on the head like he always does, and is now baring his secrets to the crew for  _ you _ . He's always been so intensely private, so distant from you and from everyone else, but when faced with the decision of himself versus you, he's choosing you  _ again _ .

     It's making your heart race in a totally different way than he usually does. You lurch forward and grab his hand, squeezing your fingers around his reassuringly. 

     Geoff watches furiously. "You act like we don't know you, Ryan. You're a crazy, manipulative bastard who does whatever the fuck he wants without caring about anyone else." He looks around at his crewmates for validation but everyone has their eyes turned to the floor, obviously uncomfortable. "You've lost your goddamn mind on the job more times than I can count, put all of our asses in danger from the LSPD and the goddamn  _ Vagabond _ because you can't fuckin' control it, and you just want me to believe that you won't do the same with (y/n)?"

     You tense up, prepared for steely blue eyes and another (bloodier) fight. Instead Ryan pulls your back to his chest, keeping his fingers locked with yours while his free hand begins lifting your shirt. The protest dies on your tongue when you feel the rough padding of his finger glide over a raised scar on your hip.

     "Two years ago," Ryan says slowly, "at a tiny liquor store in the middle of the city. It wasn't even worth hitting, but she wanted to anyway. She fell off a ladder while trying to reach the roof and landed on a piece of broken bottle." He boldly tugs at the collar of your shirt, revealing many more splotches that his teeth created along with a small, circular scar near your collarbone. "Shot while robbing a convenience store." He has the audacity to grin, "More appropriately, shot after Gavin ran in too early and blew our cover by mistake. She got caught in the crossfire."

     Gavin's eyes widen and he looks at you with remorse written all over his face, but you wave him off with a little smile. It's in the past.

     Ryan lifts your hand then, spreads your fingers out to show them the pale line of a scar that runs along the tip of your middle-finger. "Cut herself in the kitchen while making an omelet at two in the morning."

     You're grateful that he leaves out the fact that you only cut yourself because  _ he _ showed up unannounced and the sound of your lock being picked made you jump. You're also grateful when he doesn't mention that he's the one who stitched and wrapped your finger after you cut it because he was determined to get into your pants as soon as he could. 

     "There are more, if you'd like me to keep going," Ryan continues. 

     "I think we've heard plenty," Jack replies. She looks as shell-shocked as you feel.

     You've known Ryan for forever, spent countless nights together, arguing, protecting each other, simply being with one another-- _ of course _ he knows you better than anyone, but it still comes as a surprise that he remembers so much. Every detail of every story that you told him while he traced your bare skin after your trysts, everything you said just to fill the void before he left and you went back to hating each other, he remembers all of it. 

     “Do you love her, Ryan?" Geoff asks. It's clearly a desperate attempt, a way to avoid dealing with the implication of everything Ryan just revealed. 

     Ryan levels an eerily calm look towards his boss. “Why would it matter to you if I love her?” he asks lowly.

     “ _ Because I do! _ ” The room goes completely, utterly, awkwardly silent. “I love her,” Geoff says again, and he turns his head just enough to catch your eye and it’s so fucking real and powerful that you feel all the wind get knocked from your lungs.

     You don't deserve him, there's no way in hell you deserve him.

_       ~~Because you don’t love him~~ _ ~~. ~~

     Ryan goes completely still. “Well that’s good for you, Geoff,” he says after a tense couple of minutes. “Really, that’s great, but you’re wrong if you think it changes anything. You’re wrong if you think it changes that there are things I know about her that you can  _ never  _ hope to understand. You claim that I interfered because you asked her out? You had no idea who she was until that night--by then I’d known her for  _ years _ .”

     Geoff seems to deflate a little at that, because it’s true, because you have a history with Ryan that didn’t just vanish the day you met him; you have years of memories,  **intimate** memories, with the Vagabond that  _ no one else _ has. His eyebrows draw down. “Yeah,” he hiccups, “I had a feelin’ you’d say that." He takes a step forward, stumbles, and for a moment looks like he’s about to take another swing at the man in front of him. Instead he reaches out and pats him on the cheek, like a parent would a child. “You don’t love her,” he says.

     Ryan bares his teeth in a sneer. “And how the fuck would you know that?”

     “Cause I know you, pal. And ‘m not willing to put up with your shit much longer.”

     “Is that a threat?” the blonde man asks, eyes glimmering with twisted anticipation. His fingers twitch at his sides like he’s dying to reach out and throttle the man in front of him, and suddenly everyone seems a little more on edge--like they’re waiting for the Vagabond to make an appearance.

     You twist against Ryan, wedging yourself between the men before they can do anything else stupid. They’re standing so close that your shoulders almost touch both of their chests. “Enough,” you say as resolutely as you can. You take a deep breath--you can’t believe you’re about to do this with everyone around. “It fucking  _ sucks _ , but relationships come with baggage--having  _ feelings _ come with baggage. Complications. If the two of you are going to keep fighting over me like you’re preschoolers, I’m going to leave and neither of you are ever going to see me again.” You make your voice as icy and emotionless as possible. You want them to believe you, because you mean it. You look side to side, making sure that they’re both focused on you. “This isn’t easy for me either, and I hate that either way I’m hurting someone,” your voice wavers and you have to blink back tears. “I care about you both, but if me choosing is going to tear you apart, I’m not going to choose.”

     You know it isn’t what either of them wants to hear, but you refuse to tear the crew apart anymore because of your own selfish desires. Even if your decision is already made you can't risk having the only family you've ever known fall apart.

     Ryan reaches out, his eyes locking with Geoff’s, and wraps his fingers around your wrist. He pulls your hand close to his face and kisses your knuckles in a display that not only makes the atmosphere in the room that much more uncomfortable but also infuriates the boss. “I think you've already made your choice,” he says with a wink. He sounds so sure of himself and it's pretty easy to tell why. "But I understand your dilemma. This is between Geoff and I, we'll settle it like men."

     Geoff grinds his teeth, but when he tears his eyes away from Ryan and looks at you his gaze softens slightly. It’s obvious that he’s furious, that he’s hurt, but even then he isn’t willing to give up on you.“Don't worry about us," he assures. "He might be an asshole, but he's family."

     “When the time comes for you to decide, we'll both be ready,” Ryan says with a faux-pleasant smile that looks positively hostile on his face.

     As the two men stare each other down you can’t help but wish that you’d chosen a different occupation, that you'd gone back to school to get a degree, that you'd never visited the bar and gotten Geoff's number in the first place--maybe then you wouldn’t be stuck in the middle of this mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm currently on vacation but I still wanted to get this chapter out. I haven't gone through to do my usual edits yet, so little pieces may change once I have time. Enjoy!


	5. Damsel

     The atmosphere in the room is so tense it’s palpable. No one has moved an inch. Geoff and Ryan are still standing on either side of you, staring each other down as if daring the other to move first, and the lads are still ready to strike in case another fight breaks out. Even Jack looks like she has no idea what to say to get a handle on the situation. The silence stretches on and on until Ray finally whistles a low note. “So is anyone interested in who  _ I’d _ rather fuck?” he asks in a well-intentioned-but-horribly-timed joke. 

     Geoff spins on his heel to grab his bottle of liquor off the floor--no one tries to stop him as he takes a long drink. “Sure, why doesn’t everybody take some fuckin’ time to decide who’s dick they’d rather take for a ride.”

     Well if you thought things had diffused at all you were apparently wrong. You know that it’s the liquor talking, that if Geoff’s head was on straight he wouldn’t say something so steeped in hatred, but it still hurts to hear it.

     “Yo, that’s pretty fucked up, Geoff,” Michael says. "I think it's pretty obvious that the issue runs a lot deeper than that."

     “Yeah man, not cool, I was just joking,” Ray agrees. “But just so we’re clear, I would clearly choose  _ my _ dick.”

     “Shut the  _ fuck _ up, Ray,” the tattooed man seethes in a display that is  **nothing** like him.

     "Geoff," Gavin says seriously, placing a hand on the man's shoulder gently. "Ray is an imbecile, but Michael is right. I don't think Ry would put all the effort in if he was just going to piss off later."

     "Dude," Ray raises his hands in mock offense, "Weak."

     "So much for fuckin' loyalty," the boss mutters, taking another large gulp for booze. "You're all a bunch of backstabbing assholes."

     Jack changes positions abruptly, moving to stand between the lads and Geoff when she notices his knuckles turning white around the neck of his liquor bottle--Geoff has never, never been violent (heists aside) but he’s already punched one of his crewmates and now he’s snapped at another; she knows there won't be any reasoning with him today. “We should leave,” she says to the lads. “I think everything has...calmed down here,” she speaks hesitantly, because the situation is more tense now than it had been when Geoff and Ryan were actively trying to hurt one another. Honestly, she looks like she’s more than ready to give the man an earful but instead she ushers the lads towards the door despite their gawking, attempts to offer you comfort, and Michael’s glaring heatedly at the leader of the Fakes for his outburst. “If either of these idiots do anything to upset you more, you tell me,” she says to you. She offers a blatantly pissed off look to both Ryan and Geoff and then she closes the door, leaving the three of you alone.

     You’re so embarrassed that that argument just happened in front of the others that your ears are positively burning. “Just because you’re mad at me doesn’t mean you have to be a dick to everyone,” you reprimand the drunken man.

     “Mad at  _ you? _ Maybe it has nothing to do with you,” Geoff slurs. 

     Fingers dance across your waist just before a large hand settles on your hip and before you can protest you’re being dragged close enough to Ryan’s frame that you can feel his breath fan your collarbone when he exhales.

     “Oh, we both know this has everything to do with her,” he purrs, leaning even closer and pressing a kiss under your jaw.

     “Don’t fucking touch her,” Geoff hisses.

     Ryan’s eyes snap up but he doesn’t move an inch, even when you push against his chest. In fact, his fingers actually tighten against your hip and the corners of his lips turn up in a smirk. “Why shouldn’t I?” he asks. “She  _ loves _ it when I do.”

     You pinch his arm and he chuckles at the feeble attempt to escape, but he must decide to take pity on you because he releases you anyway. “I said no more fighting,” you warn. You’re a little pissed off at both of them for their childish actions despite the fact that you’re the root cause for it. You’re happy that they both agreed to at least back off from each other’s throats, but you need to calm them both down before they change their minds. The easiest way you can think to make that happen is to separate them. “Ryan, I need you to leave. Geoff and I need to talk.”

     He gives you a grin, “Of course.” He reaches towards you and you let him press his palm against your cheek (you may even briefly lean into his gentle touch), hoping that playing along with his little game will make him leave faster. “Just don’t forget that there was  _ us  _ long before him, Princess,” he says coldly, completely contrasting the warmth of his touch. 

     You pull away from him and feel an embarrassed flush rise from your neck up to your cheeks. Of course you know that, he doesn’t need to keep reminding you--though you have a feeling that the reminder is meant more for Geoff’s ears than it is for yours. His continuing efforts to stir the pot against your wishes makes your anger flare. “Leave,” you say flatly. “I said I need to talk to Geoff. Alone.”

     “I’m going, I’m going,” he raises his hands in surrender. “Behave, you two,” he warns, waving his fingers playfully despite the fact that his eyes are narrowed and dark. With that, the doors swings shut with a loud bang and he’s gone.

     You take a moment to collect yourself and when you look up you see that Geoff has taken a seat on the couch. “Geoff?” you call to him.

     He leans forward suddenly to rest his elbows on his knees and bury his face in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, and then continues to repeat it over and over and over again until you’re sure that you can feel your heart cracking wider and wider with each word.

     You’re not sure how many steps it takes to reach him but it feels like no time at all passes before you fall to your knees in front of him. You take his wrists and gently pry them away from his face so that you can look into his eyes, damp with tears. “I’m sorry too,” you whisper. “I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you, you _ have _ to know that--”

     “Then why  _ did _ you?” he asks miserably. “Why did you have to go and… and  _ fuck _ that asshole?” 

     You’re taken aback by the question, but you suppose this is exactly what you need to talk about. You had just thought, just for a moment, that maybe things were going to be okay, that maybe he would  _ understand _ . “Geoff,” you begin shakily, “you knew better than I did right from the beginning that things were a lot more complicated than I let on. You knew that I wasn’t sure about my feelings when I thought I was, and I  _ love _ that about you.” You laugh, sad and defeated. “You’re my best friend, I think you know me better than anyone sometimes.” It's a hard sometimes, because Geoff really doesn't know anything at all about Princess.

     “But?” he sniffles.

     “ _ But, _ until I met him I had no one, no one to confide in. I was harboring this huge secret and I had no outlet for it until… ” You cough, cutting yourself off; Geoff already knows more than enough about your  _ outlet  _ with Ryan without giving him the gritty details. 

     "I thought you hated him. What happened to that, huh? Were you fuckers lyin' to me about that too?"

     "I hated your entire crew! You were competition and you were literally  _ always _ in my way! You all stole from me, and you all got me hurt more than a few times--that isn't only Ryan's fault."

     “How was I supposed to know?!"

     "You weren't--!"

     “I would’ve known if you had told me!” his voice raises in pitch and volume and you sit back on your heels, putting some distance between yourself and him.

     “It’s not like you were stepping up to tell me you ran a gang the first night we met, Geoff,” you shoot back snidely. “If you hadn’t found that note from Ryan, who knows if it ever would have come out at all? We could still be two people pretending to be something we’re not.”

     “Would that have been so bad?”

     “ _ Yes _ ,” you stress. “You can’t give yourself to someone completely if you’re hiding from them too.” You sigh, shaking your head. “Being with you made me the happiest I’ve ever been, but I was tearing my hair out every night with worry that I was putting you in danger. I don’t regret that you found out who I am.”

     He gives a weak, pained laugh, “I would’ve preferred to find out differently.”

     “I had no say in how you found out, and you know it. I didn’t ask you to go snooping through my drawers that night. And I definitely didn’t ask you to call up Ryan and invite him over.”

     “Searching for fuckin’ spoon in a kitchen isn’t snooping and  _you _ know it.” 

     Your head is beginning to ache. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” you concede. “It doesn’t change the fact that I’m glad you found out; if it hadn’t come out when it did I never would’ve known about this side of your life.”

     “You never would have known the other side of Ryan’s, either. Not that he’s that much fuckin’ different, that crazy bastard.”

     “Does it really bother you that much?” you ask incredulously. You’ve thought--more than a few times--that things would be so much easier if you had never found out who Geoff was, or if you had never started fooling around with Ryan in the first place, but given the chance you wouldn’t change anything. You would selfishly take the path that leads you down the road where you get to know both of them, to care so deeply for both of them, every time. “Enough that you would’ve rather kept everything a secret from me?”

     He takes a swig from his bottle. “I would’ve rather hidden everything from you,” he drawls, “if it meant you and Ryan never got all fuckin’ chummy.”

     You frown. He would change everything, the moments you’ve shared, the bonds you’ve built, just to keep you away from Ryan? You think about how different your life would be if he had never found the note in your kitchen. Your relationship may have stayed happy, easier, for a longer time, but you would have still gone after Tinkerbell. Even if you weren’t as angry that night, even if you had planned it out more, Tinkerbell had been following you for who knows how long. You still would’ve been set up, kidnapped, tortured. You would’ve died in the dark room because Geoff would never have known you were mixed up in the Los Santos underground. Your stomach churns at the thought and animosity burns its way through your veins. “I think Ryan and I were plenty ‘ _ chummy _ ’ before I met you.”

     “It’s different,” he says, anger building in his tone again. “ _ Fucking _ doesn’t have to involve feelings.”

     You recoil from him like you’ve been slapped. “Yeah, and apparently having feelings doesn’t have to involve fucking either.”

     It’s his turn to look shocked. “Is that what this is about?”

     No, it’s not-- it’s never been about that, even when it seemed like it was. You crave Ryan's body, to have him close to you,  _ inside _ of you, but it's about the emotional intimacy just as much as the physical. Geoff can't give you what you need because you lack the amount of implicit trust that you've built with Ryan over the years. 

     Geoff is a good man, he’s taken care of you and protected you and treated you like gold since the moment he met you. He’s gentle and kind and the exact opposite of everything Ryan is. Where Geoff is all soft edges and warmth, Ryan is sharp and dangerously cold. And even though you know that, even though you’re well aware of who the obvious choice for the better man is, it doesn’t change one simple fact.

     “It’s about understanding,” you say, your voice almost a whisper.

     Geoff’s brow pinches in confusion.

     “He  _ understands  _ me,” you press. You want him to get it but you know he won’t.

     “You think that I don’t?”

     “I think that you want to protect me, to keep me cooped up and safe. I think you want to be with someone who doesn’t put themselves in danger willingly, and that’s fine, that’s  _okay_ , but it’s not who I am, Geoff. I’m a thief, a sellsword. I’ve killed people for money, and I’ll do it again if the price is right. I’m an idiot who gets shot and kidnapped and who takes out their intercom at inopportune times. I’m Princess and I’ll never be--I’ll never be who you want me to be.” You clench your hands and dig your nails into your palm when you feel your throat start to get tight; you will  **not** cry in front of him again. “And I’m sorry that I keep hurting you, but I won’t be able to stop as long as you’re in love with me because I can’t be who you need me to be.”

     "Inopportune," Geoff repeats on a laugh, completely disregarding whatever else you said because his head is fucking  _ pounding _ and he's only hearing the pieces he wants to hear--the pieces he can latch onto because it's easier than admitting the truth. "Well it seems you and Ryan had a difference of opinion, then."

     "What are you talking about?"

     "Oh, I'm sorry, did he not tell you about the little show he put on for us?"

     You can tell he's dodging to get a rise out of you so you level him with the stoniest look you can. "Apparently not."

     "Well, I guess he's just used to the team setting because his fuckin' comm didn't seem to be bothering him at all." He must see the cogs in your head working to put two and two together because he offers a snide laugh. "We heard everything, (y/n). All of it; namely the part where he can apparently give you everything and I can't give you shit."

     Your face burns so hot so fast that you actually feel dizzy. You can hear the echoing sounds of your wanton moans, your begging and pleading, the deep reverberation of Ryan's growls--the  _ pet names _ . What was it you had said? That you  _ loved _ the way he looked for you? You feel a slow-rolling wave of nausea in the pit of your stomach.

     "The whole fuckin' crew heard all of it! While we were busy worrying ourselves sick about you dickheads,  _ that's _ what you decided to do? Is that what you meant by 'first priority'?"

_      No _ , first priority was making sure he was safe, making sure you both lived. There wasn't any ulterior motive to removing your comm, you just couldn't focus with all the shouting and cursing and questioning. But Ryan… 

     "Maybe your golden boy isn't as golden as you thought," Geoff chides. "Everything that fucker does, he does for himself." He swishes his amber liquid around, staring at it instead of looking at you. "I thought that you, of all people, would be smart enough to know that."

     He's wrong, you've never been under the impression that Ryan is golden--he's always been upfront and honest with you about who he is. He's a monster, a psychopath, a  _ murderer _ who is selfish and possessive and crazy and fucking cares enough to remember the  **fabric** you use to craft your masks. There's a one-hundred perfect chance he knew exactly what he was doing when he left his comm in that night, but he never  _ lied _ to you about it. "I guess that's a recurring theme around here," you mutter ruefully, because suddenly all you can think about is Ryan's confession at the club, the sincerity in his expression when he told you he would have chased after you. If Geoff is going to start throwing around accusations, then you've got a big one in store for him.

     "What is?"

     You have a feeling he was expecting an outburst, or at least a more outward show of anger at the revelation judging by the confusion in his eyes. "Doing shit for yourself without thinking about anyone first," you shrug. "It seems to happen pretty often around here." You're being kind and giving him the opportunity to fess up, to tell you to your face instead of having to confront him with the truth.

     He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, exasperated. "I don't have any idea--"

     "You  _ lied _ to me, Geoff. Ring any bells?"

     First his eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but just as soon as they rise they fall into a deep scowl that highlights the lines in his forehead. "Look, I dunno what that asshole told you…"

     "He told me that Jack stopped him from going after me at the party." It feels so good to finally have it out in the open. "Was that on your order?"

     His face goes a little pale and you watch the bob of his throat as he nervously swallows a few gulps of air. "I told you already, he was unmasked."

     "Did he try to go after me?"

     "He would have gotten hurt--"

     "That's not what I'm asking you! I'm asking  _ did he try to save me?! _ "

     "Yes, okay?! He tried but I made Jack stop him because we were fucking outnumbered and caught off-guard and I didn't..."

     "You didn't want to lose him," you finish for him. That makes sense, because Ryan and the rest of the crew are the closest thing to family Geoff has. Still, you feel equal parts relief and disbelief; relief that he still cares for the man despite everything, relief that Ryan wasn't lying, disbelief that it's true that Geoff really did lie to you. "Why didn't you just tell me?" 

     "Would it really have made a difference? The end result was the same either way."

     "Oh, don't give me that bullshit, Geoff! If it didn't make a difference, you would have told me in the first place!"

     “And watch you run into his arms?!” And there it is, finally, the  _ truth _ . You can see Geoff blinking back tears as he continues, his voice wavering, "It’s bad enough that I didn’t find you, that I wasn’t the one to kill the bastard who hurt you…  _ Christ _ , he got you out of there while I was busy pussyfooting around with some stupid lackies."

     Your heart thumps erratically behind your ribcage as you struggle to process his words; he doesn’t actually believe any of that, right? He’s just speaking out of frustration, he can’t possibly believe he was of no help during your rescue--if not for him, for  _ all  _ of them, you would be dead right now. You're torn between your anger and the sudden, vicious regret that tugs at your chest. You should have told Geoff thank you more often, should have told him over and over and over again how grateful you are to him. "Geoff, you--you had just as much to do with saving me as Ryan did--"

     “Don’t fuckin’ patronize me--!”

     “I’m not patronizing you!” you shout right back. This isn’t what you wanted when you said you needed to talk to the tattooed man; you wanted to be adults about the whole thing, to discuss it rationally and go from there. You never wanted a screaming match but he’s so  _ goddamn  _ frustrating sometimes. “You’re just moping because you’re drunk,” you spit meanly. “Do you even hear yourself right now? You think that Ryan is the only one who risked his ass to save my life? Without you and your crew, I never would’ve made it out of there, even if Ryan had gone by himself he would have been outnumbered. You don’t…” You take a shuddering breath, blinking back the wetness in your eyes. “You don’t get to tell me that you didn’t do enough for me.” Not Geoff, not the man who has done  _ everything _ for you.

     "He took off his fucking mask, (y/n)," Geoff mutters miserably. He runs his hands through his hair, tugging at the roots while he grabs the neck of his liquor bottle with the other and swallows down what is far more than a healthy amount of alcohol. He coughs violently once he’s done and disregards your worried stare with a haphazard wave of the hand. “The son-of-a-bitch Vagabond I know woulda’ never done that, not in a million fuckin’ years.”

     Holy shit, he  _ knows _ . 

     He knows the Vagabond, knows Ryan, knows that he’s impossibly selfish and would never do anything like that for anyone  _ except you _ . 

     "Does that mean nothing to you?" you ask in a whisper. You want him to hear him say it--you  _ need _ to hear him say it. If he can admit it to you, then you’ll be able to admit it to him; the arguing, the confusion, the deception, it could all be ended so easily.

     And for a second, for just one minuscule moment, he looks at you with those bright eyes of his, puffy and red around the edges and brimming with tears, and you think he’s going to tell you what you need to hear.

_      It means everything. It means he loves you. I’m sorry. _

     But then he turns his gaze to the ground and grates out a forced laugh. “All it means is that we’re both being toyed with by that asshole.” He shakes his head animatedly, laughs another broken chuckle. “I think you should probably get outta here for a while.”

       "What?" You cross your arms and your fingernails bite into your skin as you roll your eyes, fed up with Geoff’s dismissiveness. “Why would I do that?”

      “Because I’m telling you to, and last I checked I still own this building.” He rubs at his temples, “Just let us focus on catching that son-of-a-bitch Tinkerbell, alright? It’ll be safer if you’re not here while we hunt him down. After that, Ry and I will do what we need to do.”

     “So that’s it then? We’re not going to talk about this anymore?”

     “I don’t have anything left to say!” He sounds so stressed out and tired and you bite your tongue to stop the venom from flowing out as he sets down his bottle and approaches you with open palms. When he reaches you he places a hand on your cheek reassuringly (you’re still so wound up and angry that you have to physically force yourself not to pull away from the touch). “Please trust me,” he says, then sways just slightly and makes some sort of pained noise. He steadies himself by bending to rest his forehead on your shoulder. “I feel like shit,” he grumbles. “Can we just stop fighting? Please?”

     You feel a small amount of sympathy but it’s completely overridden by vexation. “We could have, but you keep choosing to ignore the problem.”

     “I’m not ignoring the problem, I’m--”

     “Sending me away.”

     “Look, we need to find Tinkerbell as soon as we can and we can’t have any of this,” he gestures wildly between the two of you, “getting in the way right now.”

     “You think I’ll be in the way?” you ask incredulously. “You seriously still don’t trust me?”

     “Can you blame me?!” his voice raises again and he flinches when the sound reaches his own ears. He turns, stalks over to the couch, and when he falls onto it the springs creak in protest. "You didn't exactly inspire confidence when you chose to sit on Ryan's dick on the job."

     An angry red flush tints your cheeks but you can't argue with him on that; why did you have to go and royally fuck everything up the very first time you were allowed to join the Fakes for a heist? You still feel guilty for leaving everyone worrying and wondering if you were alright (at least until Ryan took the matter into his own hands, you’re pretty sure they all knew you were  _ more _ than alright at that point--and more than a little insane, too).

     Geoff rubs his hand over his face with a sigh when he notices the shame in your expression. “It's not because I don't trust you. It’s going to be dangerous, (y/n), and I don’t want you getting hurt more than you already have.”

     “I can't just sit around and let you fight my battles for me.”

     “I’m not trying to fight your battles, I just--”

     “No, that’s exactly what you’re doing. I appreciate the concern, but don’t forget that I was taking care of myself out there long before I met you or Ryan. I don’t need anyone to treat me like a damsel in distress.”

     “I’m trying to  _ protect _ you!”

     You huff a disbelieving laugh. He just doesn’t get it. “This is exactly what I meant when I said I can't be who you want me to be."

     “What I want is for you to be alive, why does that make me the bad guy?!”

     "Ryan would let me help," you say childishly. You're running out of good arguments for why you should be allowed to join them but you're too stubborn to give up hope that he'll let you, and you desperately want him to let you--it would mean the world to you if he did. It would mean that he's finally starting to accept you for who you are, which is all you've wanted all along; you have a feeling that there won't be much of a relationship left to salvage between the two of you if he doesn't. 

     "Ryan let you get _shot_ ," Geoff says angrily.

     "Let me...? Geoff, that bullet went through Ryan first." Your own form of protectiveness flares to life inside of you. "And even if it hadn't, he had no control over the cop to shot me. Do you blame yourself for every injury your crew members get while in the field?"

     "Yes."

     Of course he does, you don't even know why you asked. Geoff's heart is huge and his crew means more to him than anything--obviously he would blame himself if any of them got injured after a plan he approved.  “I just want to repay you for what you've done for me," you whisper weakly. You're so tired of fighting and the hole in your stomach is beginning to burn. "For the first time in my life I have people that I care about, and you just want me to sit back and do nothing while you all risk your lives for me.”

     “I know you mean well, (y/n), but this is  **our** fight--”

     “It became my fight the second he kidnapped me.”

     “He kidnapped you for collateral!”

     “He still kidnapped me, Geoff! He still tied me up and tortured me for days!” You see him visibly shake at the reminder and you feel a pang of regret for bringing it up at all.

     “Look, I’m not saying you don’t deserve your revenge for what he did to you, but you’re still healing. You need time that we can’t afford--we need to find that motherfucker and get rid of him before he pulls more stupid tricks. Tinkerbell is a huge name in Los Santos and he has a fuck-load of connections, you know that. Whatever he has in store for us might already be in motion, and if I put you out there you’ll be the easiest target. I can’t put an injured soldier on the field and you wouldn’t either if you ran the fuckin’ crew!”

     He’s right but  _ dammit _ , it pisses you off. You want to beat Tinkerbell to within an inch of his life with the hand that he broke, lift the knee that he smashed over his head and crush his face beneath your boot, and then brand his dead body with a crown. Just the thought of it brings a smile to your face. 

     "I can't risk it. And I can’t risk fucking all the plans up because I’m worried about Ryan blowing everything off to go after you.”

     “I'll tell Ryan to mind his own business, I already told you that I don't need--”

     His eyes narrow, “We both know telling him that won't mean shit. Jack and I could barely get him to stop after he saw you getting taken away at that party and that was before," he lifts a hand and gestures in your general direction, "whatever the fuck is going on with you idiots now."

     It might not be a full admission, but it's a start. There was a point in time when you would have questioned that statement or told him he was ridiculous for thinking the Vagabond would ever go against orders for anyone but himself, but now you have a sinking feeling that Geoff is right. You'd never be able to talk Ryan into leaving you behind if you were to get seriously injured, hell, you doubt you'd be able to talk him out of mutilating anyone who even looked at you wrong.

     The thought makes the weird feeling in your chest grow more intense. Geoff and Ryan are both so protective, but in entirely different ways. Geoff wants to keep you holed up and out of harm's way, and Ryan wants you to dive headfirst into the danger so long as he gets to rip apart the bastards who hurt you.

     "I know that you've always taken care of yourself," the boss speaks, cutting your train of thought short, "but don’t forget that you went out alone and got caught by that asshole because you didn’t think everything through carefully enough. Tinkerbell is goddamn smart as dicks and I can’t afford for you to make that same mistake.”

     That's a damn low blow; he's not concerned about your combat skills, he's concerned that you aren't smarter than the enemy. Again, you can't blame him. Your forte as Princess has always been robberies and a few low level assassinations, you've never had to go up against a kingpin, a genius of operations, like Tinkerbell. You'd be in way over your head if you were to go toe to toe with him.  “So, what, you’re just putting me on house arrest? I can't--I can't do  _ anything _ ?"

     Geoff's expression wavers briefly before it hardens. “I can’t let you help us.”

     “You can’t or you won’t?”

     “I won’t.” He takes a breath and then it’s there, clear as day on his face even though he’s still drunk from the booze--he’s in boss-mode now. “I know a safe place for you to stay while we look for him.”

     You swallow down your anger because you know that none of it will matter now that he’s made up his mind. “Don’t worry about it,” you wave him off, cursing the quiver in your voice. “After all, I wouldn’t want to distract you from the hugely important task at hand and risk getting caught.” You think he calls your name but you’re not listening--you’re backing up, heading towards the door. You just wanted to talk things out with him so that the guilt and pain would stop, but all you’ve accomplished is more of the same.

     You yelled at each other, humiliated each other--you feel worse now than you did before, and now you have no one to take your anger out on. You want Tinkerbell’s head on a platter, but you won’t go after him alone, not after last time. "I'll come back whenever you and Ryan figure your shit out." He definitely calls your name this time, but you ignore the plead. The slam of the door behind you as you race into the hallway is loud enough to conceal the sound of your sobs.

 

     You spend the next few--days? weeks? You’ve lost track of time for the first time since you were kidnapped--alone at your workspace. Geoff tries to call you a few times during the first couple of days but he must catch on because after that he doesn’t try to contact you at all. 

     It's better that way; you hope that it means he and the rest of the crew are focusing on finding Tinkerbell. At night you dream of dark skies and cold pavement, cop lights and the sound of bullets whizzing through the air-- sometimes you awake in a cold sweat when the dreams shift to nightmares of the kingpin taking and hurting your friends like he did to you.

     You scold yourself every time you catch yourself thinking like that because you have faith that the Fake AH Crew is strong enough to take him down without bloodshed (at least, without bloodshed on their side). You just wish you were there with them. 

     Jack tries calling too--every day, twice a day--but you don’t answer because she holds the ability to calm you down (she always manages to no matter the situation) and right now you just need to be left alone with your anger. Hell, you even get a few intermittent calls from Michael and Ray, and one lovely voicemail from Gavin telling you that he misses having someone around who’s worse at video-games than he is and that you should hurry back home soon; his use of the word home is enough to make you break down all over again.

      You miss them  _ so _ goddamn much, but Geoff made it clear that you can’t help his crew and you’re still so pissed off about it that you forget why you miss his ungrateful ass the second you start missing it. You know it's not fair, that it's irrational because he's just trying to keep you safe, but you just want to be able to  _ help _ . The crew is your family and the thought of them fighting without you is one that you can't erase from the back of your mind, no matter how hard you try.

     You wonder if Geoff even told them all that it was  _ his _ decision to have you leave: albeit, he didn't necessarily want you hiding out somewhere not even he could find you, but still.

     Surprisingly, you never hear from Ryan. You think briefly that he may just be acting petty after you told him to leave before your pitiful excuse for a conversation with Geoff. Sometimes you wish he would call--sometimes you're sure you would answer if he did, if only just to hear the sound of his voice.

     Deep down you're glad for the calls from everyone because it means they're okay and it gives you a sense of relief during the day before your nightmares return when the sun sets.

     You try to keep up-to-date as well as you can on the crew, because, as much as you’re angry with their leader for not letting you help, you’re still  _ worried _ about them. Geoff was putting it lightly when he said Tinkerbell has a fuck-load of connections and, as infamous as the Fake AH Crew is, their size is nothing in comparison to the amount of men Tinkerbell must have surrounding the city. As far as you can tell based on police reports, the Fakes continued their plans on taking out the parts of the city that Tinkerbell owned (and no one had gotten hurt according to any of the reports, thank goodness). You have a nagging itch most nights to throw on your mask and go join the crew, surprise them all with your arrival, but you know that it wouldn't be in your best interest--at some point you'd actually like to try making headway with Geoff, after all, and disobeying his orders (or getting caught again) is a surefire way to get stuck on his bad side.

     It's a cold night in Los Santos and you're lying awake on your shitty mattress; it's so damn uncomfortable that you just keep rolling around trying to find a comfortable position. You continue to blame the mattress for your lack of sleep at night despite the fact that you bolt awake at every crackle of your stolen police scanner. The cheap alarm clock on the makeshift nightstand beside you glares the time at you in annoyingly bright, green lights--it’s nearly three in the morning. You close your eyes, inhale the lingering scent of cologne Ryan left on your bed after the heist, and your mind is flooded with memories of bright blue eyes and strong, tan arms and you wonder what it would be like to fall asleep with him at your side. You imagine it would be at least one-hundred percent more comfortable than what you're dealing with now. You’re two seconds from saying  _ fuck it _ and sleeping on the floor when you suddenly hear a firm knock on the door.

     You’re so startled by the noise that you fall off your shitty mattress and land on the floor with a loud  _ ‘oomph’ _ . You think for a second that maybe someone had just knocked on the wrong door but then there’s another knock and your heart-rate spikes. You absurdly hope that it's just some lost civilian (wandering at three in the morning like a normal person), but you know that it's probably something much worse. You crawl to the door in hopes of taking a peek through the peephole but as you get closer you hear someone fumbling with the doorknob and then--wait, why the fuck did it sound like someone just slid a key into the keyhole?

     You don’t have time to think about it for very long because the lock clicks and the door swings open and then you’re sitting on your floor, wearing nearly nothing but a ratty comforter around your shoulders, staring up at the dark silhouette of a man. 

     The dark room.

     Tinkerbell.

_      He found you _ . 

     You swallow down the bile rising in your throat and scuttle across the floor, looking desperately for anything you can attack the man with that isn’t stored away in your safe--you won't let him take you again without a proper fight this time. You almost have your fingers on the handgun you keep under your mattress when the light flips on. You look over your shoulder towards the door and nearly scream--not because you’re scared but because you are fucking pissed. “What the fuck, Ryan?!”

     Ryan kicks the door shut and then tugs his mask off his face. He’s grinning down at you. “Well this is a pleasant surprise,” he says, and holy  _ fuck _ is it nice to hear that low tone again. “I thought you would be asleep, not spread out all pretty like this.”

     You have half the mind to put on a show for him when you see him eye the length of your naked legs and torso appreciatively, but instead you quickly pull your blanket tightly around yourself. “What the fuck are you doing here?” you ask. “And why in the hell do you have a key?”

     “Oh, I convinced your landlord a while ago that I’m your husband and that I lost the key. He’s a pretty gullible guy, (y/n), that’s not a very good thing for you.”

     "I don't think it can be considered gullible if the statement isn't that far from the truth," you say boldly.

     Ryan hums low and his eyes darken considerably as his pupils blow wide. "Can I break the news to Geoff?"

     You rise to your feet and allow the blanket to slip off your shoulders and cascade like water around you as it falls to the floor. "You have quite the obsession with bringing Geoff into our relationship, don't you?" you ask, taking a few steps towards him.

     One of his long-legged strides eats up the rest of the space between the two of you and you can't help the full-body shiver when his warm hands find the bare skin of your waist. "You're the one who has the habit of letting him ruin our fun."

     You wonder if that's all this is to him, if Geoff is right about everything; you think about Ryan becoming bored with you someday and it makes every fiber of your being  _ hurt _ . "Is that why you left your comm on?"

     He doesn't even try to deny it, just grins wildly at you. "You were saying such lovely things to me that night," he says. "It would've been a shame to keep it all to myself."

     You clench and unclench your fists a few times. "Were you just trying to prove a point?"

     "Tell me," he mutters with his mouth close to your ear, "how did your talk with Geoff go?"

     You deflate immediately and let your forehead fall against his shoulder. "Horrible," you answer honestly.

     Ryan nods and pets his fingers across your head and shoulder. "As much as he tries to act like he's not sometimes, Geoff is still one of us. He doesn't deal with rejection very well. I figured showing him was a faster way than talking things out."

     You shove against his chest angrily but he refuses to let you go and eventually, when you realize you're not going anywhere, you slump against him. You want to be angry at him for making matters worse just as badly as you want to stay mad at Geoff for lying to you about the night of the party but you're so _drained_. "This sucks."

     "If it makes you feel better, I'm sure they all enjoyed it," Ryan whispers sinfully. "You always sound so good like that."

     "You're an ass."

     Fingers flex against your skin, "Is that what you told Geoff?"

     Is he...fishing for information? Is he actually _worried_ about whatever the two of you spoke about? If you're being honest, r ight now, pressed up against the warmth of Ryan's body (despite the wear and tear that your emotions have been causing recently), you feel perfect and  _ safe _ . You feel like your heart is racing a million miles per minute and you know exactly why but you can't admit it to him without knowing for sure that he feels the same. "It's a secret."

     A sly smirk quirks the corner of his mouth up. "You've never been good at keeping secrets from me."

     You reach for him, winding your fingers into the roots of his hair. You lean up onto your toes and whisper against his mouth, "Then I'm sure you'll have your answer soon."

     He answers by closing the gap and pressing his lips against yours. 

     You melt against him, angling your head to slot your lips together more securely. He's so warm and he smells so good, and the gentle way he pulls you close makes you feel like you're floating. You fucking  _ missed _ him.

     You laugh breathlessly as his lips trail a scorching path down your neck, “I never should have brought you here." If you hadn't, maybe all of this could have been avoided--it's a nice thought, but you know it holds no truth; Ryan wove himself into your heart far before the day of the heist. 

     "You can have your key back, if it makes you feel better," he chuckles, pressing one last, tender kiss against your jugular vein before standing to his full height. He drops it into your hand without a word; you almost wish he would've put up a fight to keep it. “I’ll just have him make another one for me,” he says cockily once he notices your expression. “He thinks we’re perfect for each other, you know.” He presses a kiss into your temple, "I'm inclined to agree."

     You gasp and squeal out a  _ 'stop! _ ' when his fingertips dig into your ticklish sides. Your mouth is stretched into a smile for the first time since you got to your workspace; it feels foreign and out of place, especially since Ryan is causing it (lately he's been making you smile a lot more than he ever has), but at the same time it feels so  _ right _ that you don’t question it. 

     You do have one question, though. “Why are you here?” you ask timidly. You don't think he's necessarily disobeying orders by seeing you, but you were under the impression that the Fakes would be spending all of their free time hunting down Tinkerbell and Ryan seemed more than ready to rip the man apart.

     “I have a gift for you," he responds, eyes alight. 

     You raise a suspicious eyebrow.

     “I can bring it in now if you want, or," he leans back so that he can trail his lustful gaze over your mostly-naked form, "it can wait a while if you'd rather have a different sort of fun."

     You  love hate that he's so tempting, and you hate that you still have to question his motives, and you hate that you still think about Geoff because you never got a chance to tell him about your feelings around all the arguing. "I want my present first," you say before giving him a chaste kiss. 

     You expect disappointment but Ryan simply nods and steps away from you towards the door. "I think you might want to change into something a little more comfortable first," he says over his shoulder.

     "I think I'm perfectly comfortable as is."

     He shrugs a nonchalant shoulder, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He turns and opens the door and disappears, leaving you with growing confusion (and a tiny bit of curiosity).

     The image of a ring flashes through you mind and you quickly shake the thought away and focus on something else--something like the fact that he conned your landlord out of a fucking key. You can’t believe he has access to your workspace; you’re going to have to change the lock or, better yet, just move all your stuff somewhere else, perhaps somewhere with a better mattress. Or… or you could just let it be. You're quite fond of the little place and, for whatever reason, you implicitly trust Ryan. Plus, he's absolutely right about you not being able to keep secrets from him--he'd find out if you moved, and then he'd probably find a way to get a key to the new place, too. In the end it would be easier just to avoid the hassle. 

     Maybe the workspace can just be your little secret with the masked man. You don't mind the sound of that at all.

     Ryan’s gone for so long that you actually begin to get impatient, tapping your foot and shifting your weight from one leg to another. You finally decide that, if he’s going to take forever, you might as well just change rather than dealing with (and almost falling prey to) his lewd remarks. You make your way to your suitcase and you’re just about to pull on an oversized t-shirt-- _ his _ oversized t-shirt--when the door opens again.

     Ryan gives a low whistle or approval.

     You're squatted down in front of your suitcase in a pair of rather cute, lacy underwear. You shimmy your ass for a second and then tug the shirt down the rest of the way as you stand, keeping a sway to your hips the entire time. You don’t even bother with pants, just spin around to ask him if he likes what he sees, but your breath catches in your throat when you see what exactly your ‘gift’ is.

     “Well, Princess?” Ryan drawls. “Do you like it?”

     You take a step closer, forgetting entirely about your seduction tactics and about the fact that Ryan has a key to your workspace and about your anger towards Geoff. All of the tension bleeds out of your body and is replaced with a strange sort of euphoria and excitement that you haven’t felt in a while. Your stomach churns in a way that reminds you of a drop on a roller-coaster-- _ thrilling _ \--when Ryan places his foot on the back of the man who’s kneeling on the floor beside him, tied and beaten, and kicks him towards you.

     You step closer still, until you’re close enough to kneel down next to the man. You run your fingers (that had been broken and bloody) through his hair, grip hard, and lift his face up to get a good look at him.

     A wide, unhinged grin nearly splits your face in two and your stomach flips when Ryan chuckles delightedly.

     It’s not Tinkerbell but holy shit, this might honestly be better.

     “Hi,” you whisper in a sing-song tone. “Do you remember me?”

     The man looks up at you for the first time through blackening eyes and the face that he makes is nearly comical with how fucking scared he looks.

     “That’s right,” you laugh. You can't honestly believe this is happening; you can't believe Ryan brought him to you like this. Your fingers tingle when you think about everything you're going to do to him. “It’s been a while hasn’t it,  _ goon two _ ?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dramaaaaa! This isn't my favorite chapter because I had some issues getting it as perfect as I wanted it, but I hope that you all enjoy it anyway! In the next chapter we're jumping right back in to Ryan-centric trash c;


	6. Promise

     You never would have pegged Ryan as the humming type but there he is, sitting beside you in the driver’s seat of his car humming away--and now that you’ve heard it you can’t possibly picture him as anything _but_ the humming type. You don’t recognize the tune, but it sounds nice and calming and his voice is so _low_ it's practically hypnotic. You would probably have fallen asleep to the sound of his humming a while ago if it weren’t for the occasional thump that reverberates throughout the car; every single time you hear it you think about goon two tied up in the trunk trying to escape and it makes you burn hot with a flurry of different emotions.

     You’re not sure where Ryan's taking you (it feels like you’ve been driving forever and it’s so late already) but you're not about to complain. It's a peaceful night, not much traffic on the desert roads, and you could honestly die happy listening to the man's deep tones.

     You had tried to avoid traveling altogether originally, assuring Ryan that whatever he had planned for goon two could be done in your workspace, but he told you that he already had a place set up so that he wouldn’t get your room  _dirty_. When you think about the number of reasons things could possibly get dirty, your heart seizes with excitement.

     You don’t know what Ryan has planned but you hope it’s pain and torture and _fear_ and everything else goon two deserves for what he did to you. You hope that Ryan will take suggestions from you, maybe even let you help, but you’ll be okay--more than okay--even if he just intends to let you watch. You don’t ask him about where he’s taking you or what he has planned because you’re sure that the man bound in the trunk would be able to hear, but you can’t stop yourself from asking one thing. “Why did you bring him to me?” you question softly.

     Ryan continues humming and, for a moment, you think that he’s just going to ignore you. “I was under the impression that you’d want me to,” he says with a shrug. He turns his head just long enough to catch your gaze. “I want Tinkerbell,” he says on a growl and then his voice immediately goes back to normal like the flip of a switch, “and I already took care of that other guy when we rescued you.” He grins at the memory, fingers visibly flexing and relaxing around the steering wheel a few times like he’s remembering how good it felt to flay goon one. “That really was my bad. He just had such a dirty mouth, and the way he talked about you screaming…” His fingers tighten around the wheel for an entirely different reason, hard enough that the leather creaks in protest, and you reach across to place your hand against his arm in gentle reassurance before he ruins it entirely. He visibly flinches when you touch him and his eyes are fierce when he whips his head towards you, but then his vision seems to focus on you and all at once he loosens his grip, exhales a loud rush of air, and his eyes soften. “Anyway,” he says conversationally, as though that little _whatever it was_ hadn’t just happened. “Pretty sure that this guy is the only one left who hurt you, and I figured if Geoff won’t let you be a part of the fun then I’ll bring the fun to you myself.”

     You’re not sure what to say because, as fucked up as it is, you’re so fucking happy that he’s thinking of how you feel rather than pushing you away to ‘protect’ you.

     He must be able to read your expression because he chuckles lowly and his teeth show when he smiles at you. It's a rare expression from him and it looks so good on his face that you can't help yourself--you lean over the console and press a kiss against his cheek. "You're so handsome," you dote on him. It dawns on you that you've never told him how absolutely, utterly attractive you find him when his smile morphs into something a little more sincere--a little more, dare you say, happy? You laugh and kiss his temple, "You like that, huh?"

     "What can I say? I'm a sucker for compliments."

     "I think you're a sucker for knowing you're _better_ than other people," you whisper playfully. 

     A sly glance out of the corner of his eye. "Better than who?"

     Hook, line, and sinker--he's so damn transparent sometimes. "I dunno," you mutter, placing a few short kisses along his jaw, "I think if I inflate that ego of yours anymore I might end up in the street."

     You've never seen him look so ridiculously proud of himself. "I have a feeling I already know." When his smile widens into something more salacious you tilt your head in order to mouth at the side of his neck, scraping your teeth against his skin and _loving_ the way his groan feels against your tongue. It feels so freeing to be ~~mostly~~ alone with him, to be able to do and say what you want without worrying about what anyone else will think.

     You don't ask questions when you feel the car slow and eventually stop in the center of the empty road. Ryan's big hands find your waist and lift you effortlessly, dragging you across the small space until you're settled in his lap with your legs on either side of his. "I had a feeling you wouldn't be able to wait."

     "Am I that easy to read?"

     You grin, "Only when I'm involved."

     His fingers flex into your skin. "My only weakness."

     Your kneecap is digging painfully into his seat-belt buckle, the space is cramped and much too small for the two of you, but none of that matters as soon as his lips find yours in the darkness. You melt into him, into the feel of his hands massaging into your sides and his tongue pressing between your teeth.

     Goon two thrashes helplessly in the trunk and the sounds of his futile kicking and punching as he tries to escape fuel the undulating motion of your body against Ryan's. When he releases your mouth and tips his head back to expose the long, corded length of his neck--looking at you through the fan of his eyelashes--you purr appreciatively and trail your tongue along his pulse point. You latch onto a spot under his jaw, worrying his skin between your teeth before sucking a dark purple mark into his flesh right where you know everyone will be able to see it.

_"Help! Please, somebody help!"_

     The muffled screaming makes you rest your forehead against Ryan's shoulder and giggle delightedly. You wind your fingers into his hair and lick from his clavicle up to his ear, nipping at his earlobe before whispering, "What are the chances you'll bend me over the trunk and fuck me in the middle of nowhere?" You feel the twitch of his cock where the hardened length is pressed up into the apex of your thighs.

     "I'm not sure we have time," he intones. "We have a guest, afterall." His hands slide beneath the waistband of your pants and grab your ass in order to grind himself harder against you.

     The moan that leaves you is wanton and _loud_ , and the way that Ryan's eyes glimmer mischievously makes you grin. You're well aware of how positively depraved your request is, how, a few years ago, you never would have even _dreamt_ of suggesting something so brazen. A lot can change in that amount of time--a few years ago you wouldn't have thought your relationship with Ryan would be anything more than an occasional, emotionless fuck; a few years ago you wouldn't have thought you would be kidnapped and tortured to the point of wishing for death. Now that you have an opportunity to repay the pain, the _fear_ \--well, you can't exactly pass it up. "That _guest_ almost killed me," you remind, noticing the way that his fingers tighten angrily against you at the memory. "He thinks he knows what it means to hear me scream." You lean in to press kisses against his cheek and the corner of his mouth. "Vagabond," you call softly to him, "I want you to show him how you really make me _scream_."

     He wordlessly opens the door and shoves you unceremoniously out onto the street; the sudden action causes you to stumble, nearly fall over. "Asshole," you chastise but your giddy laugh gives you away. Your thighs clench with excitement, your heart races behind your ribcage--you can't believe this is really about to happen. You can hear the panic in goon two's voice as you lean over the trunk of the car; you plant your hands firmly against the cool metal and his pleading words quiver pathetically.

_"Please, please, you don't need to do this!"_

     You press your cheek against the car and laugh, "I'm so sorry to disappoint you, but this is just a pitstop. No need to be so scared _yet_."

     "You crazy fucking bitch!" he shouts. You feel the vibration from his kicks against your hands and face. "Just you fuckin' wait 'till I get out of here!"

     A knife zips through the air and impales into the trunk beside your hand; you hear a startled gasp followed by wheezing sobs. "What exactly are you going to do?" the Vagabond asks lowly, pulling his blade from the jagged metal and tucking it back into the sheath at his hip. His palm settles against your lower back, forcing you into an arch as his feet find purchase on the pavement between your own. "Do you really think I'll ever let you lay another hand on her?" he asks as he easily tugs your pants and panties down in one fluid motion.

     You inhale sharply at the bite of the cold night air against your most sensitive skin.

     "I was just following orders!" the trapped man pleads.

     You can still hear the laughs of the men as they tortured you echoing in your head. "I think it was more than that," you breathe, listening to the sound of Ryan fiddling with his belt behind you. You shake your bare ass and the resulting smack has your back arching further, a sharp moan on your lips. "I think you liked hearing me scream, just like your buddy," you grate out around the pleasure you feel as Ryan kicks your legs wider so that he can settle between them more comfortably.

     Goon two yells wildly and you can only hope that he's imagining what happened to goon one--you _really_ hope he saw security footage of the ordeal. "No, _no_ \--I didn't, please! Please, I was just following orders! He would have killed me!"

     "Oh, we'll do _much_ worse than that," the Vagabond promises sinisterly.

     You feel the hot length of his cock slide between your legs and you press your face harder against the car as you lean up onto your tip-toes encouragingly.

     His responding chuckle is low and lusty, "You're a needy little thing, aren't you?" The hand on your back moves over the swell of your ass, pausing for a moment to squeeze at the flesh before slipping down to your inner thigh. His fingers tease over the sensitive flesh there for a second and then hitch under your knee and hoist your leg up at an angle that exposes all of you to his roaming gaze. "Tell me what you want, sweetheart."

     " _You_ ," you pant without hesitation. You know he likes the little reminders, and you're honestly more than happy to remind him.

     He shifts his hips, dragging the length of himself along your soaked core a few times and snickering each time the fleeting pressure against your clit makes you writhe.

     "Please, Ryan," you echo the sobbed imploring coming from within the car. You don't know if it's because of your begging or if it's because you're still parked suspiciously in the center of the street, but he doesn't make you wait any longer. His grip on your raised thigh is like iron as he forces himself inside of you with one harsh thrust. You throw your head back and cry out at the sensation--it's been so long since he's taken you like this, brutal and without any preparation beforehand.

     " _Fuck_ ," he hisses, leaning forward to press his forehead against your shoulder. He bites at your skin as he begins to move, his groans still loud and clear despite having his mouth occupied; his movements are rough and impatient and the angle he has you at has you _drooling_.

     Everything feels so _good_ and you’re not afraid to tell him, shouting your praises to the heavens as he thoroughly fucks you just the way you asked him to. Your voice nearly gives out as your loud moans turn to near-screams--Ryan’s height already has you on your toes, so when his free hand sneaks down to harshly pull your hips back to meet his thrusts he practically has to lift you off the ground.

     He growls against your neck when the motion forces you to accept the entire length of his cock, his hips flush against your ass. The sound of your wrecked voice, the way the purple and red blemishes he left look on your skin--it sparks something possessive deep within, something you always seem to bring out of him. “Tell him how you feel,” he demands, dragging himself out of you slowly before slamming back in hard enough that you squeal; the way your body squeezes around the base of his length makes him _quiver_. He just can’t get enough of you, of how responsive you are to him.

     You realize then, through the haze of pleasure, that goon two has gone positively silent. You laugh out loud and slap both of your hands against the top of the trunk. "What was it you said to me that day?" you ask between gasps. " _Money isn't as important to me as a good fuck_ _?_ " You curse under your breath and whimper when a large hand slips under your nightshirt and paws at your breast. "Do you understand now?" you sigh the question. "There isn't enough money in the world to buy this feeling!"

     "You--you two are fucking crazy!" the captive finally shouts. "Let me the fuck out of here! I'll leave you alone, I'll tell Tinkerbell you're dead, you'll never see any of us ever again!"

     The terror in his voice gives you a chill.

     Behind you, Ryan laughs. "Keep begging," he encourages, "I think you're turning her on."

     " _S-Somebody help_ _!_ "

     Another chill, this time accompanied by a small moan of appreciation--appreciation for Ryan bringing you such a lovely gift and for the anticipation that has you tipping over the precipice of ecstasy. "Oh, I can't wait to get my hands on you," you promise darkly, "I'm going to make you regret every decision you've ever made."

     The Vagabond snarls and twists you around in a blink, his strong arms caging you against the car; you're quick to wrap your legs around his waist and draw him back into you, sighing headily when he resumes his ravenous pace, only now with his eyes locked on yours. "You were made for me," he says on a groan, sliding his hand under your shirt to rest over your racing heart.

     You reach down your body in an attempt to finish yourself off but the Vagabond snatches your hand and pins it harshly beneath his own, his grip on your wrist bruising. " _Ryan_ ," you sob, "I'm so close, _please--_!"

     His tongue lands in the hollow between your collarbones and licks up your neck until he reaches your chin. "Untouched," he speaks in a register so low you can just barely hear it. He slows his pace as you utter a note of confusion. He chuckles deeply and runs a hand over the sweat beading on your forehead, pushing some stray, matted locks of hair from your face and leaning forward to place a gentle kiss there. "You heard what I said," he says, eyes sparkling mischievously.

     "I can't--" You choke on your words when he snaps his hips forward. Your legs are beginning to shake from the exertion, your hips aching from being spread too wide for too long, but the feeling of being filled by him overshadows everything else. "Please, please, please, I can’t--it’s too much, oh my god, Ryan, _please_ \--!” you babble incoherently. You’re right at the edge, balancing precariously on what you know is a slope to mind-numbing pleasure.

     “She begs so prettily, doesn’t she?” he asks; you know that the question isn’t for you, especially not with the way he’s speaking the words into the gash his knife created in the metal earlier. “Do you think I should give her what she wants?”

     You whine and thrash but the Vagabond is so _strong_ and your limbs are practically jelly anyway. “I want it, I want it, please,” you continue begging. You want nothing more than his mercy, you don’t care how degrading it is; the slow drag of his cock against your inner walls makes you clench and groan--it’s pleasant but it isn’t _enough_. You circle your hands around his wrists and dig your nails into his skin harshly but it doesn’t seem to faze him at all, in fact, he just grins down at you as he awaits his answer from the hostage.

     “It looks like he wants to drag this out a little longer, baby girl.”

     Your whine of protest is drowned out by goon two avidly shouting, “Just get it the fuck over with and get me out of here!”

     You never look away from Ryan’s face so you notice immediately when his pupils blow wide, his mouth stretching into a devilish smile. “Main course it is then,” his voice rumbles out of him. He descends upon you like a lion onto a gazelle, his teeth unforgiving as they tear into the side of your neck with one powerful bite, his hips smashing against yours with enough force to push you up the car inch by inch with every thrust.

     You can’t do anything but hold on for dear life, your heels digging sharply into the small of his back, your fingers gripping tightly to his sandy locks. It’s utterly savage and depraved in a way that’s new to you--it’s fucking _incredible_ . Every nerve in your body is alight with bliss and at the center of it all is _Ryan_ ; his body against yours, his hands on you, his voice saying such filthy words into your ear. You chant his name feverishly, your voice cracking over your screams for him to _keep going, don't stop, whatever you do don't stop_.

     He presses apologetic kisses around the wound he created at your throat before leaning back and giving you one hell of a view as he licks the blood from his lips. "Where do you want me, kitten?"

     You barely have the presence of mind to understand that he's speaking at all, much less the words that he's saying, so you offer him rambling, panting praises in return as he winds the coil in your belly tighter and tighter.

     He slows his hips into a deep grind that make your eyes roll back and your name lolls off his tongue, thick and sweet like molasses. "I asked where you want me," he repeats slowly, each word punctuated with the movement of his hand as it creeps down your arm, your chest, your stomach.

     His thumb runs circles into your inner thigh and you quake with desire, your back arching taut and tears flooding your eyes. You swallow down the drool gathered in your mouth and lean up to catch his lower lip between your own. " _Inside_ ," you breathe, then groan happily when his mouth seals over yours and steals away the rest of your air. You're so distracted by the kiss that the feeling of his thumb suddenly circling over your slicked clit makes you shout his name. He doesn't relent, pushes you right over the edge with his teeth pinching the skin beneath your jaw, his fingers wet with your desire, his hips stuttering in their pace as you spasm and squeeze around him. White-hot pleasure fires across every synapse in your body and you tuck your forehead against Ryan’s shoulder, clutching him and murmuring delirious words of adoration.

_You’re so good to me._

_You make me feel incredible._

_We were made for each other_.

     Your sweet voice in his ear is all Ryan needs; his hips snap once, twice, and then he buries himself inside of you as far as you’ll take him. The growl that leaves his throat as he comes is primal, his gaze on you reverent.

     The heat that fills you makes you gasp and moan and twitch, and the movement makes you ache as the blinding pleasure dulls. “Ryan,” you call to him as your eyelids drift shut, exhaustion suddenly overcoming you.

     He hushes you gently, pressing a kiss to your temple, to your cheek, to your nose. “You’re perfect, princess,” he speaks hoarsely.

     The adoration in his tone makes you smile lazily. You can feel emotion bubbling up in your gut, something warm and gooey and saccharine. You know exactly what it is and what it means. You thought you understood it (understood _yourself_ ) before, but it feels so fucking real this time, so powerful, like nothing you’ve ever experienced before.

     You were so infatuated with Geoff.

     So naïve.

     You know now that you should've listened to Ryan all along--Ryan who understands you, understands your wants and your needs, your perversion and corruption.

     Nobody understands the Vagabond but you, and nobody understands you but the Vagabond.

     He was right all along.

     You're cut from the same cloth.

 

     You awake to a comfortable silence; street-lights pass by the windows intermittently and you know that you aren't in the desert anymore. You’re wrapped up in the Vagabond’s leather jacket with a bandage snug around your neck. Things are a little hazy, but you’d never forget the position you were in before you fell asleep.

     “Oh god,” you groan, startled by how gravelly your voice sounds. You rub your hands over your face, pressing your fingers into your tired eyes, “Did we seriously stop to fuck on your car?”

     “You quite literally asked for it,” Ryan reminds with a grin--you’re pleased to hear that his voice is more raspy than usual.

     You sit up straighter and stretch out all of your tense muscles. “How long was I out?”

     “Maybe fifteen minutes.” He glances at you out of the corner of his eye and can’t contain the glee in his voice, “I must have really taken it out of you.” A beat passes. “Or should I say put it in?”

     “You’re insufferable,” you grumble, tucking your face into the sleeve of his jacket in order to hide your ruddy cheeks.

     “No,” he denies, reaching over to take your hand in his. “Just... happy.”

     Despite your embarrassment you can’t help but give his palm a squeeze in return.

     He eventually begins to hum again and this time you recognize the tune; before you know it you’ve joined him, creating a lovely, melodic duet that is only occasionally interrupted by an agonized scream. It takes another fifteen minutes or so before Ryan pulls off down an unmarked street that you don’t recognize and flips the car lights off--precautionary, smart. The instant the car begins slowing down you hear the pounding from the trunk become more frantic and it makes goosebumps prickle across your skin.

     He pulls the car into a beat-up looking driveway in front of a tiny, beat-up looking house. He doesn’t move to get out immediately, instead he sits silently for a few minutes, occasionally checking the mirrors for any signs of activity, before turning to you. He reaches into his pocket and places a key into your palm.

     "Moving a little fast, aren't we?" you flirt.

     "How long have we known each other now?" Ryan replies smoothly.

     "Touché."

     “Head in first,” he tells you with a fond shake of the head. “I’ll be right behind you.”

     “Promise?”

     He leans in and pecks your lips, “Promise.”

     The night air is just as chilly as you remember and the inside of the house isn’t much better. When you flip on the light inside the tiny building, butterflies fluttering inside your stomach, you’re a little underwhelmed. You don’t really know what you were expecting but it looks exactly like a run-down, shabby little home with barely any furniture and ancient wall-paper flaking from the walls. You take a seat on the couch while you wait and it’s even stiffer and more uncomfortable than the mattress at your workspace. You’ll have to remind him not to make anymore wise-cracks if _this_ is what he’s working with.

     It doesn’t take long for Ryan to drag goon two through the door. The man thrashes against his hold, against the ropes that bind him, against the gag that muffles his shouting and the blindfold that blocks his vision, but Ryan is strong and holds him in place easily.

     “The gag is a nice touch,” you comment.

     “Can’t have him freaking out the neighbors.”

     “Mhm,” you give a sarcastic nod, “because this place screams ‘good intention’.”

     “I’ll have you know I’ve been told I’m a wonderful tenant.”

     “You’re never here!” you giggle.

     "That makes me the perfect tenant."

     Simply _perfect_ is more like it, from the hair on his head to the tips of his toes. You stand from the couch and give him a lopsided grin. “You’re not wearing your mask; I thought you would put it on.”

     “Oh, don’t worry, this one won’t have a tongue left to tell anyone what I look like by the time we’re through with him,” Ryan says with a grin of his own, leaning down to pat goon two’s cheek patronizingly.

     The action, the promise of his torture, makes your stomach drop in the best way possible. You watch as he easily (like, _easily_ , it’s fucking-- **incredibly** \--hot to watch) drags goon two across the floor towards a shut door on the left side of the house. You follow behind slowly, gaze fixating on goon two when you realize that not only is he struggling but he’s _shaking_ , quivering like a woeful fucking leaf. It’s mesmerizing to watch and you can’t help but kneel down and trace the muscles in his arms with the tip of your finger; he tries to flinch away but when he does you dig your nails into his arm hard enough to draw blood and that makes him stop real fast. You can feel Ryan’s gaze on you and it only spurs you to trace more of those shaking muscles, dig your nails in a little harder (just for the fun of it) so that goon two cries out.

     He reaches down and pets his fingers through your hair affectionately. “Just wait,” he speaks in a low tone, “the fun hasn’t even started yet.” He reaches into his pocket once more, pulls out another key, and you gasp aloud when the door swings open.

     The room is immaculate, white, and smells faintly of bleach. It’s clean, with perfectly organized cabinets and counters and tools, and a singular chair sits at the center of it all like a goddamn throne. You stand up, step into the pristine space, and immediately begin laughing because-- _holy shit_ \--this is really happening.

     Ryan laughs along with you as he drags the man into the room and sits him down in the chair. You watch, fascinated, as he walks to one of the counters, grabs a large amount of heavy-looking rope, and then begins tying goon two to the chair with the most intricate looking knots you’ve ever seen.

     “You should teach me how to tie knots like that,” you say.

     He looks away from his work so that he can flash you a dirty smirk, “I can think of one or two ways I’d like to show you.” Goon two groans in disgust and Ryan’s eyes snap back to him, pulling one of the knots particularly tight. Once he’s satisfied with his work he walks to the door and shuts it; when he’s sure everything is secured, he nods.

     You move, maybe faster than you’re ever moved, and rip the blindfold away from goon two’s face. “Hello,” you chime in greeting as he begins rapidly blinking to adjust to the bright, fluorescent lights in the room. When he pinches his eyes shut you’re quick to grab his face with both hands and pry his eyes open forcibly with your fingers. “Oh, no, no, no, none of that now,” you tell him on a giggle. “I want you to see _all_ of this.”

     “If he shuts them again we could always cut off his eyelids,” Ryan suggests casually.

     You outright tremble at the suggestion.

     Goon two immediately begins shouting muffled words at you through his gag and thrashes almost hard enough to knock the chair, and himself, over.

     You expect Ryan to laugh but instead he’s beginning to look bored. Your eyes follow him as he stalks to the side of the room, his gaze never straying from goon two’s petrified expression. You see him reach for something on the counter--you don’t quite catch what it is but you see it glint in the light and your throat constricts in anticipation. He moves forward slowly, gracefully, fluidly--a true apex predator quietly approaching his prey. You gasp out loud when he turns suddenly towards you and pins you with a steely stare; you had been so caught up in the moment that you hadn’t expected his change of pace. He walks up to you until he’s so close that you have to crane your neck to look up at him; he looks so calm, confident, completely in his element in this little white room. It’s so _good_ , such a stark contrast to the nervous jitters speeding across every fiber of your being so fast that you feel light-headed.

     He reaches forward, places his hand on your waist, and squeezes gently.

     His palm is so warm, even through the fabric of your shirt; you subconsciously lean towards that warmth and when you do he smirks down at you and his eyes glint deviously. _Fuck_ \--it’s heady, intoxicating, to be so close to him knowing that he’ll use his hands, the same hand that burns against your waist, to make goon two suffer. You’re so caught up in the thrill of it all that you don’t notice the hand leave your waist to circle around your wrist. You have to blink a few times, adjust your eyes to focus on something not-Ryan’s-face for the first time in--how many minutes have gone by? Five? Ten? Maybe even fifteen? You’re not sure, and you don’t dwell on it too long because the metal object in your hand is cool against your skin. When you’re finally focused enough to look down at it you see that you’re holding a small knife.

     It’s clean, just as spotless as the rest of the room, with a stainless-steel handle and an edge that you just know has been recently sharpened. You grip the weapon and look up at Ryan with wide, confused eyes.

     He slowly raises an eyebrow.

     “I--I...um--” you stammer over your question. “Do you, uh, do you want me to…?” As prepared as you _feel_ , as prepared as you want to be, you’re all over the mental map. You’ve killed before but it’s always quick and--you hope--relatively painless. This is an entirely new concept for you despite the fact that you lived through horrid torture for _days_.

     Ryan’s face splits into a positively delighted grin. “Are you scared?”

     You square your shoulders and will the stutter from your voice because hell no you’re not scared, you’re fucking ecstatic. Ecstatic and nervous--you had hoped you could help but you were never expecting Ryan to hand the ropes over so easily. “No,” you say, tongue flitting out to dampen your lower lip. “I’m not scared.”

     He raises a hand to your cheek, “Good.” He turns back towards goon two and walks until he stands right in front of him. He rips the gag away from the man’s mouth and only smiles when the room is filled with screams and cries for help. He looks like he’s about to say something but you stop him when you take a step forward, thread your fingers through goon two’s ratty hair, and yank his head back hard. “Do you remember when I screamed for you to stop?” you ask, your voice venomous. “Do you remember what you and your little friend did when I cried out for help?”

     Maybe you’re more prepared for this than you thought. All you need to do is latch onto _anger-_ -and you have plenty of that to go around as far is goon two is concerned.

     The captive whimpers, eyes glossy like he’s about to cry. Even still, even though he sits before you helpless, pathetic, he does his best to give you a glare. “Oh, I remember you alright, you dumb bitch,” he speaks, voice shaky and cracking.

     “Watch it,” Ryan warns behind you.

     A small piece of you wants him to keep it up because you know _exactly_ what will happen if the man continues to insult you. Instead you simply hum and smile sweetly down at the bound man. “You’re as charming as ever,” you note. “Tell me, did you ever return to that hell-hole where you kept me locked up so long? Ever go searching for our good friend goon one?”

     Goon two’s expression seems to falter a bit at that, bits of his arrogant demeanor falling away to reveal more of that underlying fear. He stays silent but his lips quiver.

     “I really hope you didn’t,” you say in mock concern. You release his head and step around him, twirling the knife purposefully between your fingers. “After all, my sweetheart here didn’t leave a lot of him to be found.” Your keen gaze follows the movement of his throat as he swallows thickly. “You know what I _do_ hope? I hope that Tinkerbell showed you, tried to teach you a lesson about what happens when you _fail_. You do know what happens, right?”

     He doesn’t respond and you frown animatedly. “Right?” you demand pointedly, aiming the tip of your blade between his eyes.

     “What the fuck do you want me to say?!” he cries.

     You slam your hands against the armrests of the chair, “I want you to tell me what fucking happens when you fail!”

     “I end up here!”

     Your anger dissipates as a slow, cheshire smile splits your face. “Exactly.” You stand up straight, once again the picture of kindness. “Listen,” you say softly, sugary-sweet as you lean forward and press the flat of the blade against his cheekbone. “I’m going to need you to tell us where Tinkerbell is.”

     He has the audacity to scoff and he hardly winces when the action causes the knife to cut into his skin, a red rivulet of blood running slowly down his face. “Sorry, sweetcheeks, but he’s _much_ fuckin’ scarier than you are. How about you let me go now and, instead of bringing you and your worthless, sack of shit boyfriend’s bodies back to him, I’ll just leave?”

     You turn your back to goon two and push the knife back into Ryan’s hand. As you move to search the room for what you need you hear goon two’s gravelly voice calling out at you.

     “Oi, is that really it?! You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me! You’re really just as pathetic now as you were then, aren’t ya?!”

     “You’ve got a really big mouth, you know that?” you mutter. You finally find what you need and you can’t help the excited giggle when you grab it from one of the cabinets. “Oh, babe?” you ask in a sing-song tone, because you’re going to play up the casualty, the nonchalance in the face of his torture, as much as you can; you want him to know that you’re going to hurt him and that you could care less how scared he is.

     “Yes, hun?” Ryan asks, his reply seamless, perfect, and when you glance over you see goon two’s eyes flitting nervously between the two of you. Perfect.

     You keep the cabinet door open, in front of what you’ve found, so that goon two won’t be able to see it, and you relish in the way he desperately cranes his neck to try to see what you have in store for him. “Would you give me a hand with something, please?”

     Ryan makes his way to you slowly and he gives you a puzzled look when he sees the large bucket you’ve pulled from the cabinet.

     “If you wouldn’t mind,” you say, rising to your full height, “I’m feeling a little thirsty.”

     His eyes flash and a smile of understanding curls the corners of his lips up. “Of course.”

     “Thank you,” you say quietly, leaning up on your toes to kiss his cheek.

     “Oh, what? Are the two of you seriously gonna fuck again?” goon two spits. “You’re fuckin’ animals, y’know that?! Pieces of trash, the both of you!”

     “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Ryan replies sharply. “Are you mad you didn’t get to see all of this the first time?” He encircles you in his arms and purposefully traces the curve of your waist, the dip of your lower back, and takes a hearty handful of your ass, putting on a little show for the captive man.

     “If I wanted to see it, I could have.”

     You freeze, turning to face goon two and kicking the cabinet door shut; you watch every emotion that crosses his face as he sees Ryan release you and lift the bucket, as what’s about to happen seems to process in his mind.

     “W-Wait!” he yells. “I didn’t mean it--I--I’m sorry!”

     “For too late for that, isn’t it?” you mutter darkly. “Give us the information we want and I might leave that nasty tongue of yours in your mouth for a while longer.”

     “I, I really--honestly, I don’t know where he is!”

     You stare at the pleading man coldly--he isn’t really giving up already, is he? And after all that big talk? “I think you do know,” you say to him flatly, stomach flipping as Ryan turns on the faucet and the sound of running water rushes to your ears. “I think you’re lying to me.”

     His eyes widen at the sound of water hitting the inside of the bucket. “No, no, no, I promise, I don’t know!”

     You see him trying to look over your shoulder at Ryan so you approach him, snatch him by the jaw, and force his eyes back to your own. “No,” you wave a finger in front of his face scoldingly. “He’s not who you need to be worrying about right now.” You just barely catch the flicker of defiance in his eyes before he bashes his forehead into yours hard enough that you stumble backwards.

     He laughs triumphantly but there’s something off about it--he’s trying so hard to sound like he’s in control, the poor thing. It’s cute.

     The loud sound of plastic hitting metal fills the room as Ryan suddenly drops the bucket with a low growl. “You’ll regret that,” he hisses between his teeth.

     You raise your hand to stop him when he lifts a foot to step forward. “I’m fine,” you assure. You trace the edges of the already-swelling lump on your forehead and smirk, “Actually, I’m _more_ than fine.” This is exactly what you want, even if he is forcing it--you want a fight, to be able to extinguish whatever flame of hope remains in him.

     Goon two laughs another loud, strained laugh. “You stupid bitch!” he shouts. “You’re still so fucking pathetic!” (You’re starting to believe he doesn’t have a vocabulary large enough to come up with any other insults). His gaze flicks to Ryan briefly--you’re sure that he’s watching to make sure that he doesn’t move, scared at the thought of what will happen if he does. He must be dumber than he looks because what he says next is positively insane. “I can’t believe someone like you is so pussy-whipped,” he says, and you have to admit he has guts because he looks right at Ryan when he says it. “Stopping at her every command like that.” He scoffs and then turns his attention to you. “Do you ever get tired of a man who bends over for you so easily?”

     You raise an eyebrow at the expectant looks he gives you--you doubt he even knows what he’s saying anymore, he’s so visibly frightened, but you’re interested to see where it’ll go. The idea that he could potentially piss off Ryan bad enough that he _won’t_ stop when you tell him to is tantalizing enough to make an excited flush rise to your cheeks.

     Goon two lowers his voice to a whisper meant only for you. “How about you let me go and I’ll show you what a real man is like?”

     He’s lost his goddamn mind, you’re sure of it now--he’s literally grasping at straws trying to find a way out of it, and the fact that he’s convinced himself that a ploy like this could actually work makes you want to laugh more than you’ve ever wanted to. “I don’t know,” you mumble, keeping your voice low and sultry. You step forward until your breath fans across his ear when you speak. “He’s a pretty good lay, you know.”

     He barely contains the shake in his voice. “I can do better, I promise.”

     You hum thoughtfully, leaning from side to side like you’re weighing your options--it works wonderfully, he doesn’t notice when you lift the cloth that had once been tied around his eyes off the floor. “But did you hear the way he _fucked_ me?” you ask crudely. “I know you were listening when he bent me over his car--he’s a real animal that one, are you really sure you could compete with that?”

     “P-Positive.”

     You narrow your eyes. "And this?" you question, tilting your head and tracing your fingers over the gauze on your neck.

     His eyes widen a fraction. " _He_ did that to you?"

     Your responding smile is smug, "Well I wasn't screaming for no reason." With fondness in your eyes you let the too-large leather jacket slip from your shoulders and revel in goon two's horrified stare as you reveal the patchwork bruises that color your shoulders, chest, and arms.

     The quiver in his voice almost makes you snort. "I'd--" he swallows "--I'd never do anything like that to you."

     You nearly lose your composure right then and there. _He thinks you didn't want it, didn't want the pain and the reminders_. With a feigned, shy smile you slide yourself into his lap, legs straddling his, your arms falling around his shoulders.

     He sucks in a shocked breath but quickly covers it with a disgustingly smug smirk. “I knew you’d come around, baby,” he chuckles, and your mind buzzes pleasantly with the idea that he’s actually feeling relieved. “You'll see, I'll treat you real nice. Now how about you go ahead and start loosening these ropes a bit?”

     “You know,” you lean in closer, nearly pressing your nose to his, “you’re pretty fucking stupid when you’re scared out of your mind. This," you gesture to your marred skin, "is exactly what I asked for. Somehow I doubt you could've given me all of this." You take the moment to look up and meet Ryan's piercing stare, "Somehow I doubt _anyone_ else could've given me this."

     To his credit, goon two catches on pretty fast after that. "You're right, you fucking lunatic! Who the fuck are you people?!" 

     "Just a couple who wants a little revenge." You don’t give him time to react as you tug the cloth over his mouth and hold it tightly.

     Ryan, who had moved while the imbecile of a man was distracted with how apparently well his plan was working, pours the bucket of water over his face, slowly.

     You clamp your thighs around goon two’s as he begins to struggle beneath you; you hear him sputter and cough and you remember so vividly the burning of the water pouring into your lungs but it doesn’t scare you now, even as the water sloshes over your front and soaks your clothes. In fact, you start laughing maniacally at the irony of it all. Once the water is spilled all over the floor you release the man’s mouth and stand. “I can’t believe you’d think someone so weak and stupid would be good enough for me,” you say with a cruel laugh. “I can’t believe you’d even try to compare yourself to,” you gesture up and down Ryan’s body, “ _that_.”

     “Wow, you’re going to make me blush,” Ryan says, light and playful, but when you look up the look he’s giving you is anything but playful.

     You choke down a gasp when you see how bright his eyes are, how they bore into you, how warm his gaze makes you feel. The sounds of goon two choking and sputtering up the water that had just been forced down his throat fades into nothing in your ears.

     Ryan steps close to you and his palm finds your waist again, but this time his fingers dip under your soaking shirt and find your bare skin underneath. "A couple?" he echoes your earlier words curiously. 

     You blush. "I mean, I know it's not a proposal but--"

     "Leave that part to me," he says with a wink. The sentiment nearly makes you forget where you are, what you're in the middle of. The last trickle of water leaving the bucket makes it easier to clear your thoughts. “It doesn’t sound like he’s going to give us anything,” you say because the torture is easier than addressing the status of your relationship.

     Ryan seems perfectly fine with the change of subject. "At least, not yet.”

     You swallow the lump in your throat. “Well, we can’t have that.”

     “How many times did they do this to you?” he asks, raising the empty bucket in his hand questioningly, his fingers tightening possessively against your hip.

     “I lost count.”

     He scowls, the light in his eyes dying-- _Vagabond_ , your mind whispers at you in warning--as he looks over at goon two, who is breathing raggedly and shouting insults at you that you’re both ignoring.

     You reach up and touch the sharp line of his jaw with your fingertips. “Why do you care?” you whisper.

     “That much should be obvious by now.”

     He tries to turn but you catch his cheeks in your hands, “I want to hear you say it.”

     “Oh _fuuuuck_ , are you guys kidding me?!” goon two shouts around coughing fits. “Is this really your idea of a fuckin’ date?!”

     “This? No, not really.” You slide your hand down Ryan’s bicep and forearm until you can reach the handle of the bucket. “Now _this?_ Yeah, I’d say this is a pretty sweet date.” You grin, wide and feral, at the squeak of terror you hear. “Don’t you think, baby?”

     “The best,” he responds, still devoid of emotion, still pissed off.

     You can’t have that--no, you want to have fun with this, not watch again as an enraged Vagabond shreds one of your captors to bits. As sexy as it was to see him so possessive, so _protective_ , goon one’s death was just too easy. “Hey,” you say gently, pulling him down by the neck in order to press your forehead against his, “this is the best gift anyone has ever given me.”

     He rumbles at the praise, though his demeanor doesn’t change.

     “You’re too good to me,” you continue, pressing a series of short kisses against his lips. You hear another grunt of acknowledgement and you chuckle, squeezing the back of his neck, pressing your thumb tantalizingly close to his carotid artery. “Ryan.” You make sure his sole focus is on you before you speak again. "Don't make me do this alone."

     Those dark eyes soften just the slightest bit, "I would never."

     "I survived what they did to me," you reassure him. "They tortured me and I'm still _alive_." You feel strong, empowered. "Are we going to let him survive this?"

     " _No_." He says it so surely that it makes your heart race just thinking about the different ways you and Ryan could kill the bastard.

     "Let's show this idiot what happens when you mess with us." You choose your last word carefully, purposefully, because there's no longer a separation that needs to be placed between the two of you--wherever Ryan goes, you'll follow. “Let's waterboard him again,” you whisper excitedly, shaking the empty bucket. You feel alive with the desire to hear goon two struggle against the water in his lungs, alive with the desire to hurt, to cut, to burn, to destroy.

     (Maybe, possibly, alive with the desire to throw Ryan onto the ground and have a redo of the events that took place on the trunk of his car).

     The Vagabond hums low and the seriousness suddenly leaves his expression. His eyes light back up and he makes a sound close to a groan in the back of his throat. He squeezes your hip tight and it feels natural to be so close to him, natural when his nails bite into your skin. “That’s my girl.”

     "You promise?"

     He gives you a charming smile, one you know now that you'll never be able to live without. "I promise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm honestly pretty happy with the way this one turned out! I hope you all enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> Also, I created a tumblr! My username is the same, so follow me if you'd like! I would love to start interacting more and accepting requests on my blog (: 
> 
> I'm still in the process of final touches for ease of access and personalization, but it's up and running for all intents and purposes right now. I hope to see some of your lovely faces over there!
> 
> greysynonyms.tumblr.com
> 
> <3


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